and that of his organ had daily been heard. In the absence of such happy
chances--and in one way or another they kept occurring--his girls might
have seemed lonely, which was not the way he struck himself. They were
his company but he scarcely theirs; it was as if they belonged to him
more than he to them.

They were out a long time, but he felt no anxiety, as he reflected that
Mr. Flack's very profession would somehow make everything turn out to
their profit. The bright French afternoon waned without bringing them
back, yet Mr. Dosson still revolved about the court till he might have
been taken for a valet de place hoping to pick up custom. The landlady
smiled at him sometimes as she passed and re-passed, and even ventured
to remark disinterestedly that it was a pity to waste such a lovely day
indoors--not to take a turn and see what was going on in Paris. But Mr.
Dosson had no sense of waste: that came to him much more when he was
confronted with historical monuments or beauties of nature or art, which
affected him as the talk of people naming others, naming friends of
theirs, whom he had never heard of: then he was aware of a degree of
waste for the others, as if somebody lost something--but never when he
lounged in that simplifying yet so comprehensive way in the court. It
wanted but a quarter of an hour to dinner--THAT historic fact was not
beyond his measure--when Delia and Francie at last met his view, still
accompanied by Mr. Flack and sauntering in, at a little distance from
each other, with a jaded air which was not in the least a tribute to his
possible solicitude. They dropped into chairs and joked with each other,
mingling sociability and languor, on the subject of what they had seen
and done--a question into which he felt as yet the delicacy of
enquiring. But they had evidently done a good deal and had a good time:
an impression sufficient to rescue Mr. Dosson personally from the
consciousness of failure. "Won't you just step in and take dinner with