with a great deal of fringe and no fire, of a window with a great deal
of curtain and no light, and of the Figaro, which he couldn't read, and
the New York Herald, which he had already read. A single person was just
now in possession of these conveniences--a young lady who sat with her
back to the window, looking straight before her into the conventional
room. She was dressed as for the street; her empty hands rested upon the
arms of her chair--she had withdrawn her long gloves, which were lying
in her lap--and she seemed to be doing nothing as hard as she could. Her
face was so much in shadow as to be barely distinguishable; nevertheless
the young man had a disappointed cry as soon as he saw her. "Why, it
ain't Miss Francie--it's Miss Delia!"

"Well, I guess we can fix that," said Mr. Dosson, wandering further into
the room and drawing his feet over the floor without lifting them.
Whatever he did he ever seemed to wander: he had an impermanent
transitory air, an aspect of weary yet patient non-arrival, even when he
sat, as he was capable of sitting for hours, in the court of the inn. As
he glanced down at the two newspapers in their desert of green velvet he
raised a hopeless uninterested glass to his eye. "Delia dear, where's
your little sister?"

Delia made no movement whatever, nor did any expression, so far as could
be perceived, pass over her large young face. She only ejaculated: "Why,
Mr. Flack, where did you drop from?"

"Well, this is a good place to meet," her father remarked, as if mildly,
and as a mere passing suggestion, to deprecate explanations.

"Any place is good where one meets old friends," said George Flack,
looking also at the newspapers. He examined the date of the American