"We have one of your writers on our shelves," he remarked with a
smile, offering the book to Frances.

"Poems of Oliver Wendell Holmes," she read aloud. "Haven't you any
other American authors?" she demanded in amazement. "And how did
you know I was an American?"

The librarian shook his head. "I have often thought we should have
more American books," he replied, "but they are so extremely dear
as compared with those published on this side of the Atlantic that
we have not afforded them. How did I know your nationality? By the
way you speak."

Frances looked disgusted. She said little more, but soon persuaded
the reluctant Win to postpone his investigations and come down
again into the Royal Square.

"Now, Sis, what's the matter with you?" Win inquired on seeing her
flushed face.

"Oh, you didn't hear that man say he knew I was an American by the
way I talked," sniffed Frances indignantly.

"Anybody would think you didn't want to be one," commented Roger
bluntly.

"I wouldn't be anything else," retorted Frances, "only I don't
care to have fun poked at the way I talk."

Win's glance traveled from his sister's annoyed face to Edith's,