"Now tell me all about yourselves and what you are going to do with your winter, and we can 'reminisce' another time. We must hurry before Henny Pace gets back from market. I came early so as to avoid her and see you a moment alone. She is a kind, good soul and I am really very fond of her for auld lang syne, but you might as well try to hold a conversation with a bumping bug in the room as Henrietta. Firstly, do you mean to stay here?"

Molly and her mother laughed outright at the bumping bug comparison. It was very apt.

"Why, Cousin Sally, we could not think of spending the winter being coerced at every turn," returned Molly. "We were hardly in the house before Mrs. Pace actually took Mother's clothes off and put her to bed, and last night at dinner she refused to let me have any coffee. She said it would ruin my complexion!"

The marchioness roared with laughter. "How like old Henny that is! She always was a boss, but I don't blame you for objecting. I let her seem to boss me just for the fun of it. I have known her since first coming to Paris and understand how good she is at bottom, but wild horses could not drag me to spend a night in her house. I ask her to la Roche Craie every year and try to give her a rest, (she really works awfully hard,) but she is so busy there trying to change my housekeeper's methods and rearrange the linen presses that she gets very little rest after all. Jean cannot stand her, but my son Philippe sees the good in her that I have brought him up to see; and then he clings to any and everything American. I am anxious for you to know my husband and son and for them to meet you. Do you know French?"

"Mother speaks better French than I do in spite of my work at college," confessed Molly.

"Well, I studied French with the old time method more as we study Latin, and while my accent is vile, my verbs are all right. I am going to try to brace up in accent, and Molly and Judy are endeavoring to perfect themselves in grammar. But you have not met our friend Judy, Miss Julia Kean," said Mrs. Brown.

"No, I have not, but from all the complaints Henny Pace has made of her, I know she must be charming. When Henny gives a boarder a good character, I know without meeting her that she is some spineless old maid who is afraid to call her soul her own, or that she is a hypocrite like me who wants peace at any price. Now she tells me that Miss Kean is head-strong, self-willed, flippant, slangy, ill-bred, inconsiderate——"

"Oh, how could she tell such things?" interrupted Molly. "Why, Cousin Sally, Judy is splendid! She is independent and knows her own mind, and all of us are a little slangy, I am afraid; but she is very well-bred and Mother says the most considerate visitor she has ever had."

"Well, child, her report of your friend had no effect on me but to make me want to meet the young lady, so I can judge for myself. I want you and your mother to come and dine with us this evening at six-thirty and to bring Miss Kean with you. We will go to the opera to hear Louise. It is wonderful and I know you will like it," and la Marquise d'Ochte smiled on her young Kentucky cousin and pressed her hand, pleased to see how she could speak up for her friend.

"We shall be delighted to come," said Mrs. Brown, "and I know Judy will appeal to you. She is a dear child and as free from affectation as you yourself. Now, Sally, tell me how we must go to work to find an apartment and where we should settle ourselves. We are far from affluent and want something inexpensive but, of course, respectable. Judy is to be with us; also a Miss Elise O'Brien, whose acquaintance we made on the steamer. You know so many persons, I wonder if you ever met her mother: she was a Miss Lizzie Peck, who married a young artist, George O'Brien, some twenty-five years ago here in Paris. At his death she married Mr. Huntington."

"Know Lizzie Peck? I should say I did,—the outrageous piece! You see, before Jean succeeded to the estate and before I had my windfall from Aunt Sarah Carmichael, we lived in a very small way and our principal society was in Bohemia. At that time Lizzie Peck was the beauty of the Latin Quarter. She was supposed to be studying art, and indeed she was quite clever. But she was such a belle and so busy drawing young men to her, that she did not give much time to any other drawing. George O'Brien was much too good for her in every way. He was one of the wittiest men I ever knew and good nature itself. It is to be hoped that the daughter Elise inherited a disposition from him and not from the flirtatious Lizzie. Jean always insisted that there was an understanding between Tom Kinsella and Lizzie, but I hardly think a man as keen as Tom could ever have been taken in by the likes of Lizzie," and the marchioness got up preparatory to making her departure.

"Why, Mother, to think of Cousin Sally's knowing Mr. Kinsella, too! You liked him, didn't you, Cousin Sally?" asked Molly eagerly. "He was on our steamer and so kind to us."

"Yes, my dear, I liked him very much and should like to see him again, and so would my Jean. I fancy a great many persons are kind to my little cousin," and she pinched Molly's blushing cheek. "Now, Milly, don't worry for one moment about an apartment as I am almost sure I know of a place that will just suit you. It is a studio apartment on the Rue Brea, just across the Luxembourg Garden from here. It belongs to an American artist named Bent. He and his wife are going to Italy for the winter and would be delighted to rent it furnished, I am sure. It is very superior to many of the studios in the Latin Quarter as it has a bathroom. But I am not going to tell you any more about it until I find out if you can get it, what the price is, and just what sleeping accommodations it has. I have my limousine at the door and shall go immediately to the Rue Brea, and to-night when you come to us for dinner I can tell you more. Au revoir, then, my long lost cousin," and she kissed Mrs. Brown on both cheeks.

"That is the first Frenchy thing she has done yet," thought Molly; and then when the elevator had slowly descended out of hearing distance she remarked to her mother: "How could anyone live in a foreign country for almost thirty years and stay so exactly like 'home folks'? Cousin Sally's accent is much more southern than yours and mine. Did you notice her 'sure' was almost 'sho' and she spoke of Lizzie Peck's dra-a-win' young men? I love her for keeping the same. And oh what fun to be going there to dinner! I can hardly wait for Judy to come home from the studio to tell her."

Mrs. Brown was equally pleased with her cousin's having remained so unaffected and looked forward with much pleasure to renewing the girlhood intimacy, and also to meeting the Marquis d'Ochte, of whom his wife spoke so enthusiastically as "my Jean," and the son Philippe. She had some misgivings about the son because the literature of the day does not paint a young Frenchman in particularly desirable colors as the companion of girls; but she hoped that the mother's innate good sense had served to bring up the boy in the proper way. Then Molly and Judy could meet him as they would any young man from their own country, and he would understand their easy freedom of manner and of speech, different, she well knew, from that of the unmarried French girl. She determined to say nothing to the girls of the difference, as she did not want them changed or embarrassed by self-consciousness, and she felt sure of their having breeding and savoir faire to carry them through any situation with flying colors.

As the marchioness had indicated, she had married before Jean had succeeded to the estates and indeed before he had any idea of being the heir presumptive. His uncle, the Marquis d'Ochte, was at the time a comparatively young man, a widower with a son of twelve; and everyone expected that he would marry again and perhaps have other sons. Jean d'Ochte, when she met him, was a rising young journalist, making, however, but a meager salary. His father was dead. His mother, Madame d'Ochte, was a very superior woman and recognized Sally Bolling's worth in spite of the fact that she had but a tiny dot to bestow at her marriage. She saw her son's infatuation for the American girl and gave her consent to the marriage, without which, as is the law in France, they could not have been wed. Sally's alliance gave her the entree into the most exclusive homes of the Faubourg St. Germain but she was not a whit impressed by it. She took her honors so simply and naturally that she won the hearts of all her husband's connection and they ended by applauding the leniency of Madame d'Ochte in permitting the match, which they had formerly condemned as sentimental.

Jean and his wife spent their first married years living in the simplest style and Sally learned the economy for which the French are famous. Then came the windfall of fifty thousand dollars from Aunt Sarah Carmichael, which reconciled the exclusive Faubourg more than ever to the match; and then the death of the little cousin of Jean's, making him his uncle's heir; and finally the death of the uncle, which gave Jean the title of Marquis d'Ochte. It meant giving up his profession, to which he was much attached; but the estates had to be looked after and the dignity of the title maintained; and now there was leisure for the reading and writing of plays, which had been his secret ambition.

Sally made a delightful marchioness. She had been accustomed to the best society in Kentucky and she declared good society was the same all over the world; as far as she could see the only way to get on was just to be yourself and not put on airs. She was very popular in the select circle to which the title of Marquise d'Ochte admitted her but she did not confine herself to that circle; she knew all kinds and conditions of people, and never forgot a friend, no matter how humble.

Judy was very much excited at the prospect of dining with a live member of the old nobility, but her excitement was nothing to that of Mrs. Pace. That lady, when she received the message from Mrs. Brown telling her they would not be at home for dinner as they would dine out, immediately climbed to the seventh story to find out where they were to dine, and on being informed of their destination, she went off into transports of delight. Her ardor was somewhat dampened when it was divulged that Judy was to be one of the party.

"Sally is very good natured but entirely too democratic for her position as the wife of one of the very oldest of the nobility in France. Of course she asked Miss Kean because of her friendship with your daughter," panted the irate dame, out of breath from her climb up two flights.

"I don't believe that was the only reason," said Molly, rather glad to give Mrs. Pace a dig after her report of her darling Judy. "Cousin Sally said she had been anxious to meet Miss Kean from what you had told her of my friend; so you are really responsible for the pleasure in store for her."

"Well, I only hope she appreciates the honor done her," spluttered Mrs. Pace. "What are you going to wear? A dinner in the Faubourg and the Opera afterward calls for the very best in your wardrobe."

"Perhaps you had better advise us about our clothes," said Mrs. Brown sweetly, remembering what her cousin had said of Mrs. Pace's kind heart and how she humored her by seeming to let her boss her. "I have a very pretty black crepe de Chine. I think I am too old to go decollete, but I am sure this is suitable, especially as I have nothing else."

"It is perfectly suitable, and if you take my advice you will wear it and leave the neck exactly as it is with that lovely old lace finishing it off in a V. For pity sakes, don't tell Sally you are too old for low necks as she is about your age and wears decollete gowns on every occasion where one is warranted," said Mrs. Pace, much pleased at being taken into anyone's confidence on the subject of clothes or anything else.

Molly, taking her cue from her mother, then got out her dress and showed it to the eager landlady.

"It is lovely and just your color. Sally used to be given to that blue when she was young, but she says now she is too big and red to wear anything but brown or black. You must have a taxi to go in. I will attend to it for you. I hope Miss Kean will not do herself up in any fantastic, would-be artistic get-up, but will do you and your daughter credit, to say nothing of me, after I have got her this invitation," and Mrs. Pace bustled off, filled with importance.

Mrs. Brown and the girls, left alone at last, dressed themselves with the greatest care for the occasion, realizing what it meant to dine with the nobility and then go to the far-famed Opera.

"Only think, the tomb of Napoleon, dinner with a marquis and the Opera, all in one day! I almost wish we had put off the tomb until to-morrow. Our impressions are coming too fast," exclaimed Molly.



CHAPTER VII.

THE FAUBOURG.

At the toot of the horn, the porte cochere of the Hotel d'Ochte was thrown open by a venerable porter and the taxi containing Mrs. Brown and the girls swept into the court in great style. How beautiful it was! The soft color of the stone walls blended with the formal box bushes and tubs of oleanders; here and there a wrought-iron lantern projected from the pilasters; rows of snub-nosed caryatides held up little balconies, also of wrought iron, of the most delicate design and workmanship. Judy held her breath at the effect of line and color and wondered if she would ever know the inmates well enough to be allowed to make a picture of the court.

They were met in the hall by the most gracious and least formal of hostesses and taken immediately to her boudoir to remove their wraps.

"And this is Miss Julia Kean, the friend of my cousin, as the easy lessons in French put it. I am afraid I shall just have to call you Judy, my dear, and not start out trying to 'miss' you. And Molly in my own blue! Ah, child, for the first time in my life I tremble for the affections of my Jean! There is something about the combination of that particular blue with red hair that goes to his head. Milly, you are beautiful! How proud I am of my kin!" And the marchioness chattered on, leading them down a long, dim hall, hung with tapestries and armor, to the library.

"We live in our library. It is so much cosier than the great salon and we feel more at home in the smaller room; and here we can talk without having to shout across space."

The door was opened at their approach by Philippe who bowed low as they entered and stood aside, while they were introduced to his father, the Marquis d'Ochte.

The marquis was a very interesting-looking man, tall for a Frenchman, with merry brown eyes and a black, closely cut, pointed beard. His hair was iron gray, thick and rather bushy. His manner was very cordial and all of the ladies were secretly relieved to find that he spoke English fluently, if with an accent.

Philippe was a handsomer man than his father, having that rare combination of coloring: dark eyes and golden hair. He wore a pointed beard, too, as is the almost invariable custom of Frenchmen; his eye was as merry as his father's and he had inherited his mother's strong chin, big honest mouth and perfect teeth. The d'Ochte family certainly made a wonderfully fine looking trio. The marchioness was radiant in black velvet and diamonds, her neck and arms beautiful and white, her abundant hair parted in the middle and done in a loose knot on her neck. She was a very distinguished looking woman and worthy to take her place with royalty as well as with the nobility. Years had touched her but lightly; but the eternal youth in her heart, as in that of Mrs. Brown, was what gave her the charm of expression and manner.

Cordial relations were established immediately between old and young.

"There is nothing like a good American handshake to make strangers acquainted," said the host, looking admiringly at his wife's cousins and their attractive companion, Judy, who in spite of Mrs. Pace's fears that she might get herself up in "paint rags," was most artistically gowned in old-rose messaline. "It is more pleasure than I can express to meet the cousins of my Sara; also Mademoiselle Kean, of whom we have heard much from the respected Madame Pace," he added with a mischievous twinkle.

"Heavens, how must I behave if Mrs. Pace has already given me a character?" exclaimed Judy. "Must I be as she says I am, or must I be as she wants me to be?"

"Be yourself, and you will be as we want you," said the marchioness, kindly. "Jean and Philippe do not have the chance to meet many American girls and they do not, as a rule, care to meet Henny's boarders, who are usually dry-as-dust old maids, especially the ones Henny recommends."

"Oh, please don't change yourselves, any of you," begged Philippe in a voice and accent so southern that it was amusing coming from a veritable Frenchman. "All my life, I have longed to meet some of my cousins and to hear more of the Kentucky stories, and of Chatsworth and the Carmichael place. Does Cousin Sarah Carmichael, Mrs. Clay, I believe she is now, still take the biggest piece of cake, and are the beech trees as beautiful as they were when my mother used to play under them with you, Cousin Mildred?"

"Oh, Philippe, you should not tell tales out of school! Sarah is Milly's sister and she might not like the cake reminiscences. Sarah was mighty grabby, though, wasn't she, Milly? I am afraid she will never forgive me for getting the legacy from Aunt Sarah Carmichael. You see we were both named for her and Sarah naturally expected an equal division if not the 'biggest piece of cake,' and when the whole fifty thousand came to me, it was a sad blow to Sarah. But she was quite comfortable and Jean and I were the needy members of the family, as far as money went. That was all we did need as we had everything else," and the marchioness laid her hand lightly on her husband's bushy hair whence he gently drew it down to his cheek.

Mrs. Brown could not help smiling over Sister Clay and the big piece of cake. She remembered how the two Sarahs had always been at daggers drawn. Her sister was much older than Sally Bolling and had always been critical of the lively girl who had repaid her by laughing at her and cracking jokes at her expense.

"Yes indeed, Philippe, the beeches are even more beautiful having had some years since then to grow. Trees are one of the things that improve with age. I hope you will come to Kentucky and make us a long visit and see all of your kin and their homes," said Mrs. Brown cordially.

"That would be fine, if the mother and father could come, too. You don't know how beautiful your southern tongue sounds to me, Cousin Mildred. You say 'kin' just as my mother does and as I do. I am laughed at by my English friends for my way of speaking their language, but I would not give up my southern accent for worlds."

Dinner was announced, interrupting Philippe, and they made their way to the salle a manger. The marquis gave his arm to Mrs. Brown; Judy fell to the share of the handsome young son; and the marchioness put her arm affectionately around Molly's waist.

"My dear," she said, "having you with us is a pleasure, indeed. I wish I had a daughter just like you. I think your mother might spare you to me. She has two other daughters and four sons. That is too much for any woman."

"You had better not say that to mother," laughed Molly. "The only time I ever saw her lose her temper with Aunt Clay, who would try the patience of a saint, was when Aunt Clay intimated that it would be much more economical if there had been only half of us, three children and a half instead of seven. I was a tiny little girl, but I can remember how I crawled under the table I was so scared. I had never seen mother get really mad before and she turned on Aunt Clay in such a rage that I felt sorry for her. You know it must have been pretty bad if I felt sorry for Aunt Clay, for she is the one person in the world I can't like."

"Molly, we are alike in more ways than one! She is an abomination unto me! Sarah Clay made my childhood unhappy. You see, I had no regular home as my mother and I were very poor. We spent much of our time visiting and Cousin George Carmichael, your grandfather, was goodness itself to us. The Carmichael place was more like home than any other to me. I simply loved it and spent many happy hours playing with your dear mother; but Sarah never lost a chance to rub it in on me that I was in a measure a dependent. As a child it would cut me to the quick; but as I got older and made my visits at Cousin George's, I would retaliate by making game of my older cousin; and no one can abide being made fun of. I tell you I gave her tit for tat and usually came out ahead. But we must stop this whispering. Your mother can't stand any criticism of her sister. Some day we can get together and say all the mean things we've a mind to about old Sarah!" Then the marchioness was transformed in the twinkling of an eye from the naughty Sally Boiling to the gracious hostess, seeing that her guests were seated and leading the conversation into the most agreeable channels.

The dinner was perfect, every detail in absolute taste, served beautifully but with an elegant simplicity. Molly made mental notes on the sauce with the fish, trying to find out without asking what was in it; and then the gravy with the filet of beef occupied her attention. Such a wonderful gravy with a character all its own. She remembered what Edwin Green had told her of the Frenchman who was visiting America. When asked his impressions of the country, he had said: "America is a country with a thousand different religions and one sauce." She wondered what Miss Morse would think of this gravy, and smiled as she recalled the lecture on gravies delivered by that highly educated teacher of domestic science and the smooth, perfect specimen she demonstrated, with no more flavor than Miss Morse herself.

"What is the little joke my Cousin Mollee is having all to herself," asked the marquis.

Molly frankly confessed what had made her smile, since her cousin wanted to know, and of course in her confession praise of the gravy had to be included.

"Brava, brava," and the Marquis d'Ochte clapped his hands. "She is like my Sara in all ways. She is also a discriminator in foods. This gravy, my dear Mademoiselle, is the chef d'oeuvre of my chef. You notice the butler, Jules, has left the room. Pourquoi does he go? He cannot wait to tell Gaston, the chef, that Madame's cousin from across the seas has been so gracious as to praise his work of art. If you will turn ever so little you will see the happy face of Gaston peeping in to view the beautiful young lady."

Molly turned, and sure enough, tip-toeing to see over the shoulder of Jules the butler, was Gaston, his face radiant.

"Molly is a wonderful cook herself," said Judy. "She has an instinct for food that is truly remarkable. At college an invitation to a Molly Brown spread was looked upon with greater reverence than being asked to have tea with the President. But has she not learned from Aunt Mary, that dear old colored woman who cooks like an angel? We trembled for fear that the domestic science teacher would ruin Molly's touch and make her too academic, but I hope it hasn't."

"Dear Aunt Mary, I had almost forgotten her!" exclaimed the marchioness. "Don't tell me you can make Aunt Mary's spoon corn bread, Molly! If you can, I'll make the Bents move out of their studio to-morrow so you can move in. And I'll come to live with you and get you to make me some for every meal until all the cornmeal to be purchased at the American grocers' is used up!"

"Indeed she can, Sally, and many things besides. Aunt Mary has initiated her into all the secrets of her trade," said Mrs. Brown. "I remember so well hearing the old woman say to Molly, when she was a little girl, 'Ef you wan' ter know how ter make bread, you have ter begin at de beginnin'. Now yeast is de fust an' maindest thing and tater yeast is the onliest kin' fit ter use, an' you can't git taters 'thout diggin' 'em; so fer the fust step, s'pose you go an' dig some taters.' So, you see, my Molly can do it all."

"Oh, how I love to hear about Aunt Mary!" sighed Philippe. "Am I to have some of this ambrosial bread, too, Cousin Molly?"

"Yes, indeed, but I am afraid the meal we get in Paris will not be right. Tell us, Cousin Sally, about the studio in the Rue Brea. Can we get it? We have had so many things to talk about, we have not asked you about it."

"The Bents expect to go to Italy for six months and are very much pleased to have good tenants in their absence. I am going to take you and your mother and Miss Kean, if she can come, to see the place to-morrow morning. The rent is reasonable, ridiculously cheap even, one hundred and twenty-five francs a month."

Mrs. Brown's face fell at the rental named by her cousin. The marchioness saw it and gave a merry laugh. "I know just what you are doing, Milly; you are thinking in dollars. I said a hundred and twenty-five francs; that is only twenty-five dollars."

"Oh, how silly I am! I did think you meant dollars. Of course, that is cheap and well within our means. We are so grateful to you, Sally, and I am sure it will suit," said Mrs. Brown, blushing at her mistake, which she need not have done as it is no easy matter to think in foreign money.

The dinner went gaily on. Molly and Judy told Philippe all about Wellington College, and he in turn had much to tell them of Nancy, where he had been studying forestry after his course at the Sorbonne. The marquis and marchioness had many questions to ask Mrs. Brown of the relatives in Kentucky. The talk was interesting and delightful and they felt as though they had known one another always.

They lingered over their coffee and cheese until the butler announced that the limousine was at the door ready to take them to the Opera. There was a general move for wraps and gloves, but Philippe stopped his mother long enough to embrace her and whisper in her ear: "Both of them are jewels and I can't tell which one is the more precious"; and Molly and Judy, unconscious of their being rivals, hugged each other in Cousin Sally's boudoir and said in chorus: "What an Adonis!"



CHAPTER VIII.

THE OPERA.

The ride through the brilliantly lighted streets; across the Seine with its myriad of small boats with their red and green lanterns; through the Place du Carrousel where the Louvre loomed up dark and mysterious; under the arch and across the Rue de Rivoli; then into the Avenue de l'Opera, seemed to Mrs. Brown and Molly the very most delightful experience of their "great adventure." It was an old story to Judy but one she could not hear too often, this Paris at night; and the marchioness confessed that after thirty years, the Avenue, if you approached it as they were doing, gave her a thrill that was ever new and wonderful. They proceeded slowly, as the procession of automobiles was endless.

"The horse is almost an extinct animal in Paris," said the marquis to Mrs. Brown, who had remarked that she feared she was coming to Paris too late to see the much written of type of "cab, cab horse and cabby." One sees occasionally a specimen of the old days: rickety cab, thin horse and fat, red-faced cocher; but such an equipage seems to be in demand only by the very timid who are afraid to trust themselves to the modern means of locomotion. Those poor souls are not, as a rule, on the boulevards at this hour, but shut snugly behind doors, locked and barred, safe from the "dread Apaches and all the terrors of the night."

"I love automobiles," exclaimed Molly, "but nothing could ever take the place of a horse to me, even a poor, abused, old cab horse."

"Ah then, you can ride!" cried the delighted Philippe. "And you, too, Miss Kean? American girls are the finest on earth surely," (only he said "sholy"). "We have horses at Roche Craie and all of us ride. Mother is a splendid horsewoman."

"Yes indeed, I am going to ride just as long as a horse can be found big enough to carry me," laughed the marchioness. "Sometimes I think my poor beast must look like a pet duck I had when I was a child. It got run over by a wagon, and my old mammy said, 'Yo' lil duck got run over, honey chile. He is right down in the back but still able to bear up!'

"But it is fine that you girls can ride, and when you come to visit us at Roche Craie you can have some famous gallops. I hate the English riding horse with his eternal trotting and the rider working himself to death posting. Our horses are good Kentucky riding stock with gaits. I hope you brought your riding habits."

"I did!" and "I did!" said Molly and Judy almost in the same breath.

"I never move without my riding habit, bathing suit and skates," declared Judy. "I learned my lesson about my bathing suit once when I spent the summer in camp with Papa. I did not know we would have any bathing worthy the name and did not put mine in the trunk. When we got there we found that the only form of bath that could be had was in a creek as there was not even a basin in camp, and there was I without a bathing suit! Papa was furious at my stupidity. We were miles from any kind of shop. 'Necessity is the mother of invention,' so I took a big laundry bag, cut slits for arms and legs, tied the draw string around my neck, and with a neat belt I looked quite chic. It did not give me much freedom for swimming but I could at least get the necessary bath."

Every one roared at the picture Judy drew of herself tied up in the laundry bag and just then they got out of the jam on the Avenue, crossed the great Boulevard des Italiens, and stopped at the beautiful entrance to the Opera.

The d'Ochte box was in the first tier and proved very roomy and comfortable, commanding an excellent view of the house as well as the stage.

"We have come early on purpose," said the marchioness, "as I wanted you to see the house fill. I can point out any celebrities I happen to know before the performance begins."

The girls and Mrs. Brown were seated in the front, with the host and hostess and their son in the back of the box. There were two extra seats, but madame declared that she liked to have some left for visitors.

"Louise is the opera of all others to introduce strangers to Paris," explained Philippe to Molly. "It is Paris, Paris sounds, Paris sights, the tragedy and comedy of Paris."

Molly was devoutly thankful that she had bought the libretto of the opera of Louise when she and her mother had ventured out to see the tomb of Napoleon after the visit of Cousin Sally in the morning; and when they were taking their much needed rest before dressing for dinner in the Faubourg, she had read it aloud to her mother.

"I was so afraid I might miss something," she explained ingenuously to her cousin. "You see, mother and I want to see and hear everything we can. We have done so little traveling and seen so little in our lives that this coming to Paris is like a visit to fairyland to us. I am afraid I'll wake up and find it is all a dream."

"I feel as though I were in a dream, too," said Philippe. "I have had so little chance to talk to girls like you and Miss Kean. La jeune fille, bien elevee, in France is so missish and afraid to speak out to a man. You and your friend look me straight in the eye without the least affectation of timidity, just as though you were boys instead of girls; and at the same time you are delightfully feminine. It is a strange thing to me to watch one of these girls of my country, with downcast eyes and so much modesty she can hardly speak above a whisper. The moment she becomes madame all this timidity disappears, and in the twinkling of an eye she is the charming young married woman, full of all the arts and graces. The transformation is so sudden, it makes one doubt the sincerity of the former modesty. Mother says the French girl is thus because it is what the average Frenchman wants, the old story of supply and demand. But I am half Anglo-Saxon and want no such person for my wife. My mother has spoiled me, and I can never be happy with a hypocrite."

Molly smiled, thinking that while her cousin was declaring himself Anglo-Saxon, he was certainly not talking like one. Such candor is seldom seen in the male Anglo-Saxon. His warmth and fervor were decidedly French.

The house was beginning to fill and many glasses were leveled at the box of Madame la Marquise d'Ochte. The general verdict was that it was a very effective grouping. Certainly there were not two middle-aged women in the whole audience more distinguished looking or handsomer than the marchioness and her cousin; nor were there two fresher or sweeter looking girls, charming in their eagerness to see and not for one moment conscious that they were attracting any attention. The marquis and Philippe formed a pleasing background of masculinity to these beautiful women.

The opening scene, Louise's garret room in her father's house with the view through the window of her lover's studio; the duet with her lover in which she tells him of her father's refusal to their marriage; and then her promise to run away with him in event of her parent's persisting in his hard-hearted resolution to separate them, seemed to Molly most wonderful and touching; but when the mother came in and berated the lover, Julien, as "a rascal, a starveling, a dissipator"; and when Louise defended him as being "so good, so courageous," and the mother retaliated by calling him the pillar of a wine shop and attempted to beat her daughter, Molly covered her eyes and wept, all unconscious of the amused glances of the occupants of the neighboring box.

But in a moment she was watching again: The father has come in and there is some sort of reconciliation between him and Louise, although her mother is still furious and slaps her in the face when she takes up for him; then the father interferes and embraces Louise, and they are finally all seated around the table, the mother with her sewing, the father with his pipe, when Louise starts to read aloud from the newspaper: "The Spring Season is most brilliant. All Paris is in holiday garb." Louise stops reading and after a moment sobs: "Paris——" and the curtain slowly descends.

There was a storm of applause, and Molly came to the realization that she was in a fair way to have a red nose if she did not control her emotions. She gave a sad little smile and hoped that Philippe would talk to Judy and let her be sure of herself before she trusted her voice.

As she looked out over the "sea of upturned faces," she saw Mr. Kinsella and Pierce in the pit. They were applauding vigorously but Mr. Kinsella had an eye on their box, evidently in hopes of recognition. Molly gave him a delighted bow and then told her mother and the marchioness of his presence. The marquis overheard her remark.

"What! Do you mean my old friend, Tom Kinsella? Where, where? Point him out to me. I'll go and bring him to our box."

He hurried out and made his way to where the Kinsellas were seated. The twenty-five years since he had seen his American friend were forgotten. He remembered him as the glowing, enthusiastic boy, for whom the whole Latin Quarter felt such sympathy when he had to give up his beloved art and go into business. It escaped his mind entirely that time had not stood still with Tom Kinsella any more than with him. Jean d'Ochte made a very natural mistake. He put his arm lovingly around Pierce and in his impulsive French way said: "Mon cher Tom, je t'embrasse."

Pierce looked up, very much amused at being hugged at the Opera by a distinguished looking French gentleman with a black beard and bushy, gray hair. Mr. Kinsella rose from his seat and clasping the marquis by the hand, exclaimed:

"Jean, how splendid to meet you on this my first night in Paris after all these years! Don't apologize for mistaking my nephew for me," and he introduced Pierce to him, calling him "Monsieur d'Ochte," being entirely ignorant of the fact of his old friend's having inherited a title and estates. "Now tell me of Madame. I do hope I am to be allowed to see her."

"Certainment, my friend. She now awaits you in the box where we are entertaining Sara's cousins, Mrs. and Miss Brown, of Kentukee, also a charming jeune fille, by name Miss Kean."

Uncle and nephew were led, willing captives, to fill the unoccupied seats in the box. Mrs. Brown and Molly were delighted to see them again, and Judy and Pierce plunged into a discussion of art schools and pictures. The marchioness was overjoyed to meet a friend from the old Bohemian days and her husband was like a boy in his enthusiasm over this long lost companion. Philippe looked a little sad and downcast, although he was studiously polite to the strangers. He had been having such a splendid time with the girls that he could not help resenting the interruption to his pleasure caused by the entrance of these two Americans. He was secretly glad when the curtain went up and the whole party was forced to give their attention to the stage.

The next act, in front of the wine shop, the lover Julien and his companions playing and making horseplay, had the note of true comedy and Molly could find nothing to weep over, for which she was truly thankful. She whispered to Mr. Kinsella that when there was anything to cry over, she simply had to cry, and he said:

"I see you have what Mr. Dooley calls 'the stage delusion'. It is a delightful quality to feel the reality of the drama and not remember there is any 'behind the scenes'. I fancy at this minute Louise, who got a little husky in that duet with Julien, when she promised to leave her mother and father and come to him, is off in her dressing room spraying her throat and gargling with peroxide to get her voice in trim for the third act. In that she has a long and very beautiful love scene in the little home at the apex of the Butte Montmartre where Julien takes her."

"Why did you come to Paris so soon?" asked Mrs. Brown just then. "You meant to exhaust the sights of Antwerp before leaving, did you not?"

"Well, you see the sights exhausted me before I exhausted them, and then, like Louise, I felt the call of Paris. We got in only an hour ago, and after a very hasty dinner came to the Opera. Louise seemed to me to be the very best introduction I could give my nephew to this wonderful city."

"That is exactly what I have been saying to my cousin Molly!" broke in Philippe. "It seems to me that Charpentier has given the true Paris with all of its charm and its dangers. Of course one should see this opera for the first time in the spring of the year, as that is when Paris is most alluring and in that season the scene is laid."

"Molly, look in the second tier of boxes almost directly opposite us and see if that good looking young woman in the rather outre gown is an acquaintance of yours," said the marchioness. "She has been looking at our box steadily ever since we arrived."

"Her face is familiar but I can't place her. Judy, see if you know her," said Molly, as she adjusted Mr. Kinsella's opera glasses to her eyes. She and Judy got the focus at the same moment and exclaimed in unison: "Frances Andrews!"

"She is a girl we knew in our freshman year at college" explained Molly to her Cousin Sally. "I remember she came to Paris to join her grandmother, but we have never seen or heard of her since she left college. She was a very peculiar person but clever and bright, and always awfully nice to me."

"Humph!" sniffed Judy. "I'd like to see the person who isn't nice to you, you old saint! The only thing I ever liked about Frances Andrews was that she got into bigger scrapes than I did and made my misdemeanors seem small in comparison. She was clever enough, I'll grant you that, but peculiar is a kind adjective to use in describing that girl. Why, Molly, she was the most unpopular girl at Wellington. Even her own class did not stand by her. She was crooked, as crooked as a snake."

"Oh, Judy, there was a lot of good in Frances, but she got in bad with her class and could not redeem herself somehow. She was so young, too, and I haven't a doubt that she is vastly improved," and Molly caught the eager eye of the handsome girl in the opposite box and gave her a cordial bow.

In a moment an usher brought a card to the door of the d'Ochte box. On it was scrawled the following note:

"Molly darling: I am wild to see you. Give me your address and I'll come to-morrow.—Frances."

Molly wrote the address of the Maison Pace and said she would be glad to see her, but had an engagement for the time named. She was a little sorry that Frances had turned up, as she knew that Judy would refuse to see any good in her and did not know just how the very sophisticated young woman would impress her mother. But Molly was not one to turn her back on any one who was fond of her and she had always been sorry for Frances, feeling in the old days at college that she had been too easily condemned by her classmates. "There was good in her," reiterated Molly to herself, "and there still is, and I am going to be nice to her. Judy can be as stand-offish as she pleases. I know mother will be kind; she always is."

The last act of Louise was the most wonderful of all and Molly felt herself becoming so filled with emotion that she feared she would spill over again. She was grateful to Mr. Kinsella when he said to her in an undertone: "The gargle evidently did her good as the huskiness has gone." She smiled in spite of herself and the tears had to go.

It was over all too soon. Louise's father, after he realizes that Louise has gone for good to her devoted lover in Montmartre, gazes through the garret window at Paris, which, lighted, seems like a thousand-eyed monster to the old man. He shakes his fist in a rage and cries, "Oh, Paris!"

As they put on their wraps, Molly heard the marchioness whisper to her husband: "Ah, Jean, your mother was wise to let us marry, wise and good. How much better it would have been for this poor old man if he could have let youth have its say!"

"Ah, my Sara, indeed she was. And now ma mere can still hear the voice of Paris calling as did Louise in the first act, and she does not have to curse it as did la pere in the last." And the marquis disguised a fervent hug in the pretext of helping his wife with her cloak.



CHAPTER IX.

THE POSTSCRIPT.

The Bents' studio apartment proved to be exactly the thing for Mrs. Brown and the girls, and arrangements were made with the artist and his wife to have it turned over to them in ten days, which would just fill out their time at Maison Pace.

The apartment consisted of a large studio, kitchenette and two small bedrooms. The plan was for Mrs. Brown to have one of the bedrooms and Elise O'Brien the other, while Molly and Judy, to their unbounded delight, were to sleep in a balcony that ran across one end of the studio. The Marquise d'Ochte explained to them that this was quite customary in Bohemia, and that she and her husband had occupied a similar roost for several years during their early married life.

"I am versed in many a makeshift and this minute could come to live in the Latin Quarter on half of what you, with your extravagant American notions, will spend," declared the marchioness, as she showed our friends over the apartment. "Now this is my advice for the conducting of your menage, Milly, but I am not like Henny Pace to get riled if you do not take it. Get your own breakfast, which is a simple matter in France, having fresh rolls and butter sent in every morning and making your own coffee or chocolate; take your dejeuner a la fourchette, I mean your luncheon at a restaurant; and then leave your dinners to circumstances, sometimes having them at home or going out as the occasion offers.

"Get a servant to come in and clean for you every morning by the hour, but do not have a regular bonne. It would be a useless expense and then there is no sense in your having to slave over housekeeping. The way for foreigners to become acquainted with Paris is to see the restaurants, and there are so many you need not get tired of the cooking in any one. All I ask of you is to have a regular Kentucky supper for me some night with——but never mind what with, it will be sure to be what I want if Molly cooks it."

Molly was busy inspecting the kitchenette, which Mrs. Bent was showing with much pride as it was quite unique in the Latin Quarter. There was a tiny gas range, a convenience not often enjoyed as gas was a luxury not as a rule afforded in Bohemia. The floor was of octagonal, terra cotta tiles and there was a high mullioned window over the infinitesimal sink. Long-handled copper skillets and stew pans were ranged along the walls, suspended from hooks; and a strangely colored china press filled with an odd assortment of dishes was at one side.

Mrs. Bent laughed when she saw Molly examining the press. "That is inherited from Mr. Bent's student days. It is a plain deal closet, colored with palette scrapings. It is always a great stunt with students to make something like this. Mr. Bent has long ago outgrown it as a studio furnishing and will have nothing short of mahogany around him, but it is too roomy and useful for me to give up, so it is banished to the limbo of the kitchen. I have known students to clean their palettes many times a day just to get a little more scrapings on their presses."

The effect was a peculiarly deep, rich tone and Judy declared that she liked it.

"It looks like the shadows in some of Monet's landscapes, dark, but clear, with light all through them. Some day I am going to make a press just like this one if I have to clean my palette a hundred times a day to get scrapings."

The apartment was on the ground floor and one entered across a very pretty paved court which had green tubs of evergreens here and there along the wall. The indoor studio balcony, where Judy and Molly were to sleep, had a long casement that opened on a tiny iron balcony which overhung the court. There were four similar balconies belonging to the neighboring studios and all had porch boxes filled with ivy or chrysanthemums, making a wonderful effect of color.

Judy was Judy-like, entranced. She stepped upon the balcony and holding out her arms to the tubbed spruce trees, exclaimed in a melodramatic voice:

"'O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name: Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet.'"

Suddenly what should she see, from the open door of the opposite studio, but the faun-like face of Pierce Kinsella, grinning delightedly at the unexpected encounter. He proved himself equal to the occasion and said in a low and feeling voice:

"'Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?'"

And Judy came back with:

"'How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.'"

And Pierce answered:

"'With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do that dares love attempt; Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.'"

By this time Mr. Kinsella had come out into the court and Molly, hearing the spouting of so much poetry, joined Judy on the balcony to see what was going on. She and Mr. Kinsella applauded loudly until the windows of the two other balconies opened, and from one the head of a long-haired man and from the other that of a short-haired woman were poked out.

"Poetry aside, Mr. Kinsella, what are you and Pierce doing here in the Rue Brea?" called Judy.

"We are looking at a studio that is for rent. And what are you doing here, please?"

"Sitting under our own vine and fig tree, sir! At least, it will be ours in about ten days," answered Molly.

"You don't mean it! Well, if this isn't luck! Pierce, I'll go back and sign up with the concierge immediately. Such neighbors as these would make the meanest studio desirable and, after all, these are pretty good rooms. We could hardly do better in the Quarter."

Pierce was pleased to have the matter settled, as he felt himself to be among friends and had visions of many good times in store for him after working hours with the three bright girls and Mrs. Brown, who was even more attractive to him than the girls. Mr. Kinsella had assured Mrs. Brown that Elise would be sure to fall in with any plans that good lady may have made for her, and he answered for Mrs. Huntington's acquiescence in any arrangements he saw fit to bring about for her daughter. She had really washed her hands of the matter, and had given him to understand that since he had interfered and insisted upon Elise's having a chance to go on with her much interrupted art studies, he could go ahead and place her where he chose. For her part, she declared, it made no difference one way or the other. She had seen too much of Bohemia in the old days to want ever to cross the borderland again. Mr. Kinsella felt sure she had secretly hoped that Mrs. Brown would want Elise with her, and he only awaited their arrival from Brussels to let them know of the studio apartment in the Rue Brea and of the cordial welcome Elise O'Brien would have from all three of the ladies concerned.

The next ten days were very busy and exciting ones. Judy and Pierce plunged into their drawing with renewed zest. Pierce was at Julien's, too, but as the men's school is in an entirely different part of Paris from the women's, he and Judy saw each other only in picture galleries or on the delightful jaunts that the whole crowd took. The Maison Pace was not a very pleasant place to make a call, as there was always a bunch of snuffy old maids huddled together in the parlor, knitting shawls and swapping tales of the good and bad pensions they had encountered in their travels. When a caller braved the ordeal, they always stopped knitting and talking and sat spellbound, intent on not losing one word of the visitor's conversation.

Mr. Kinsella and Pierce made one essay, but the occasion was so stiff and formal and Mrs. Pace so monopolizing that they determined never to repeat it, but to wait until their friends were installed in their own apartment. That longed-for time arrived quickly enough for Molly and her mother, who were sight-seeing in a most systematic manner, with Baedecker in one hand and Hare's "Walks in Paris" in the other. They would come home tired and footsore but very happy and enthusiastic.

Molly wrote Professor Green that she felt like the little girl at the fair, who, when her mother noticed she lagged behind and asked her if she were tired, said: "My hands and feet are tired, but my face isn't."

"We do become weary unto death but each morning we get up with renewed zest," she wrote, "with so many wonderful things to see before nightfall. One thing that bothers us is having to dress and sit through a formal dinner with the eagle eye of Mrs. Pace upon us. We are looking forward to the time when we shall be in our own apartment, where we need not dress for dinner unless we have a mind to. My Cousin Philippe d'Ochte declares that already my mother and I know more about Paris than he does. We are trying to be systematic in our sight-seeing and not to hurry, as we have the winter before us, but at every corner and square there is something interesting to find out about.

"Philippe is very kind to us and ready to escort us through any parts of the city where he thinks it best for women not to go alone. For my part, I think we could go anywhere we wished. The Parisians are so obliging and courteous, and so far no one has been the least rude to us. The old maids in our pension have many tales to tell of the encounters they have had with impertinent men, and one lady declares that she never goes on the street without being insulted. But I agree with Mr. Kean who says: 'If you have some business to attend to—and attend to it, you women can go anywhere in the world you want to in perfect safety.'

"I have not begun my studies yet, as my time has been so taken up with seeing the places of interest, but Philippe is going to see that I am put in the proper class in French Lit. at the Sorbonne where he has obtained a very important degree. He says there are several English and American women there, so I shall not feel strange.

"I am so glad your orchard home is coming on so well. Kent writes us that it is already beginning to look like a house. The rough stone chimneys and foundations are lovely, I know, and will make such a beautiful support for English ivy.

"We are looking forward to Christmas with great eagerness. This is the first Christmas I have had with my mother for five years and the first one she has spent away from all of her other children ever. I shall have to make a noise like seven Browns to keep her from being homesick."

Here Molly stopped and reflected that some of those five Christmases she had spent in the company of Professor Edwin Green and she wondered if he would remember it, too; and if he would miss her as she felt she was missing him, in spite of all the delightful things she was doing and seeing. "I know he is not thinking of me at all and I am a goose to waste any sentiment on him. I have never had a single letter from him I could not show mother and Judy. When Judy gets a letter from Kent she never shows it to us, but takes it to her own room and evidently gets great satisfaction from its perusal, as she always comes out beaming. Ah me! I am sure I shall die an old maid,—but anyhow I do not intend to knit shawls and sit around a boarding house talking about the food!"

When poor Professor Green received the letter, part of which is given above, he, too, was plunged into sad reflections. He reached for a pretty azure paper weight that always stood on his desk and reminded him of a certain pair of blue, blue eyes, and looking into it as though he were crystal-gazing, he shook his head mournfully and said: "Ah, Molly, you little know how you hurt me! And still, what right have I to expect anything else from you? I see you now being conducted around Paris by your Cousin Philippe. I'll be bound he thinks you need a courier even when you go to a Duval restaurant, the sly dog. I know his type: small and dark, with a pointed beard and insinuating manner.

"Here I am tied to Wellington and these hated classes and lectures, when I hoped to be in Paris acting courier for Molly instead of this disgusting foreigner, who won't know how to appreciate her——But what an ass I am! I don't know that Philippe is disgusting, and from what Miss Molly says of his mother, the marchioness, she must be charming.

"I do wish she would not write so coolly of my 'orchard home.' I should think she would know by telepathy that I always think of it as 'Molly Brown's Orchard Home.' I was a fool to take Mrs. Brown's advice and not tell Molly of my love. It may be too late now, and then what shall I do?"

The distinguished professor of English at Wellington College groaned aloud. His housekeeper, who was bringing in his tea, heard him and almost dropped the tray in her alarm.

"And is it the schtomic ache ye be ahfter havin'?"

"No, Mrs. Brady, it is higher up than the stomach. I am glad to see my tea. 'The beverage which cheers but does not inebriate' may make me feel better."

"Phwat ye need is a wife to look ahfter ye and keep ye straight. Schmokin', schmokin' all the time an' brroodin' over the fire is not good for a young gintleman. An' your disk and floor littered up wit' paaperrs and ashes."

The kindly old soul began to clear off the untidy desk and stooped to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen from Molly's letter without Professor Green's having read it or noticed its existence. She started to put it in the waste basket, but the professor noticed the action, being, like most scholars, impatient of having his books and papers touched. In fact, he had over his desk a framed rubbing of Shakespeare's epitaph which he had once confided to Molly he kept there especially to scare Mrs. Brady and make her let his things alone:

"Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg ye dust encloased heare Bleste be ye man yt spares the stones And curst be he yt moves my bones."

"Wait, my good Mrs. Brady! What is that you are throwing away?"

"Nawthin' but a bit o' blue paaperr, Profissorr. To be shure there's a schrap o' writin' on the back. Blue things always brring to me mind the swate eyes o' Miss Molly Brown, the saints protict her" and she handed the stray piece of thin, blue, foreign letter paper to the eager young man, who clutched it and smoothed it out and read the following postscript:

"My cousins, the d'Ochtes, have been very anxious to get up a party and take us to Fontainebleau to see the palace and then drive through the forest; but I have done everything to keep from going and I hope the scheme has fallen through. You have told me so much of the wonderful forest and the walk from Fontainebleau to Barbizon that I am hoping to see the place for the first time with you. The spring is the time to see it, anyhow, I am sure, and perhaps by then you can find a suitable substitute and have a holiday."

Professor Green looked up from the perusal of the little half sheet of paper with his face beaming. What can't a woman put in a postscript? The pain, which he had confessed to Mrs. Brady was a little higher up than his stomach, had entirely disappeared. He was no longer jealous of "any little, black, dried-up Frenchman." That is the way he thought of Philippe; and it was certainly well for the young American's peace of mind that he did not know that Molly and Judy always spoke of Philippe d'Ochte as "the Adonis."

"Mrs. Brady, your good, strong, hot tea has done wonders for me. I am feeling so much better, I am going to take your advice and go for a long walk and not sit over the fire any longer."

He accordingly unwound his long legs, put the little blue letter with its health-giving postscript carefully in his breast pocket, (right over the spot of the vanished pain!) and went for one of his fifteen-mile tramps, humming sentimentally, "When the robins nest again, and the flowers are in bloom."

Mrs. Brady looked after him and smilingly shook her head: "He may say it's the tay, but there was some preschription in that bit o' blue paaperr I was ahfter destroyin' that was the pain-killer this toime for the poor young gintleman. Me prrivit opinion is that he, too, is a-missin' the swate eyes o' Miss Molly Brown!"

Professor Edwin Green came home from his long walk in an excellent frame of mind, happy and tired; but he was not too tired to write to Molly a letter that somehow she forgot to read to her mother and Judy.



CHAPTER X.

BOHEMIA.

What fun it was to be moving to their own apartment! Mrs. Pace was the only drawback to their happiness. She was very lugubrious and was sure they would find the ground floor damp, although it was explained to her that there was a good cellar under the studio and you went up several steps to the entrance. For a week before they left her, she would emit groans and shake her head sadly, saying: "I know it is a great mistake. These artists are notoriously careless and the place will be filthy, I haven't a doubt. And then the expense of keeping house is so great. Never mind, I shall hold your rooms in readiness for you and you can come back to them at any time."

"I beg you will do no such thing," said Mrs. Brown. "Of course we shall stay in the studio for six months, as we have rented it for that time. As for the dirt we are sure to find: you see Mrs. Bent is not an artist and she has the cleanest rooms I have ever seen."

But nothing convinced Henrietta Pace. She only knew that she was not to have the very pleasant boarders, so well connected, too, and so easy to please and courteous. Of course she blamed it on that very pert Miss Kean, who had defied her from the beginning; but what could one expect from a girl brought up in no place in particular, not even born in a fixed spot, (Julia Kean, you remember, was born at sea,) with a father who openly boasted of having a gizzard? And Mrs. Pace would give what Judy called, "one of her black satin sighs."

"Why should she dress in black satin all the time?" exclaimed Judy, after a particularly dismal dinner where Mrs. Pace had spent the time telling of all the misguided persons who had left her protecting wing and of the direful things that had befallen them. "The idea of any one as huge as she is wearing tight black satin! Why, I noticed two great square high-lights on her, measuring six inches across, one on her arm and one on her capacious bosom. In the latter, the whole dinner table was reflected. She should wear soft, loose things where no accenting high-lights could find a foothold."

"Oh, Judy, you are too delicious!" laughed Molly. "Who but you would notice the high-lights on your landlady's bosom, and then even the reflections in those high-lights? But weren't you amused at the 'unmerciful disaster that followed fast and followed faster' all the boarders that had not stayed at Maison Pace?

"One girl married a worthless art student and had to paint bathtubs for a living; one girl got lead poisoning in a studio where she was studying; one lady got her pocket picked on the Bois de Boulogne and one poor gentleman was lost at sea. Two of these calamities certainly could not have happened in this place. I'd defy anyone to get married here, even to a worthless art student, nor could one very well get lost at sea. I am glad we are to leave to-morrow and also glad that Elise O'Brien will not come until we are installed in the Rue Brea."

Molly had seen Frances Andrews several times since the recognition at the Opera, and had found her very agreeable but still peculiar, passionate and moody. She was extravagant in her affection for Molly and seemed eager to please Mrs. Brown. On the one occasion in which she had seen Judy when she called at the Maison Pace, she had been embarrassed and ill at ease with her and a little wistful, Molly thought.

She whispered to Molly on leaving: "I know Miss Kean despises me, but don't let her influence you. I am not as good as you think I am, but I am not half so bad as Miss Kean thinks I am. I got in wrong at Wellington and never could live down that scrape. Breaking the eleventh commandment is a terrible mistake: getting found out, I mean. I really did not do anything nearly so bad as lots of the other girls: Judith Blount, for instance. She did mean things and I never did. I was my own worst enemy and harmed no one else."

"Well, Judith Blount has 'come through,' as the darkeys say when they get religion, wonderfully well. It was the best thing that ever happened for her to become poor; and then she had such a wise little friend, Madeleine Pettit, who showed her how to work. You know I am your friend, Frances, and always did like you. You must not think Judy Kean does not, too. I am sure she has no reason to dislike you," and Molly bade her good-by with promises to come to call on her and her grandmother very soon.

But Frances was not mistaken about Judy's feelings for her. That young woman had a deep-seated dislike to the handsome, dashing Frances. "I don't trust her, Molly. She certainly did a dishonorable thing at college, and her eyes, although they are so beautiful, are a little shifty. I don't want to like her and I don't mean to, so there!"

The Browns' move from Boulevard St. Michael amounted almost to a flitting in the eyes of Mrs. Pace, as they departed while she was at market and had to leave their good-bye with Alphonsine for their respected landlady. The Marquise d'Ochte sent her limousine to convey them to their new quarters, and knowing the habits of the redoubtable Henny, she deliberately had the chauffeur call very early for her cousins so that they could avoid the stormy good-bye she knew they would have to undergo.

They found the apartment shining and beautiful, everything swept and garnished, a fire burning in the big stove in the studio and a wonderful green bowl of chrysanthemums on the table. A little note was stuck in the flowers, bidding them welcome from the Bents and wishing them joy in the apartment where they had been so happy themselves.

"Aren't they the nicest people you ever saw," exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "The place looks as though it had been arranged for honored guests instead of just renters. I don't see how they could have slept here last night, eaten breakfast here, and left everything in such apple pie order. I almost wish Mrs. Pace could see it, just to keep her from feeling so sorry for us. Now let's unpack, put away our clothes, and make a list of what we need in the larder. When we go out for luncheon, we can do our purchasing."

"Of course we'll have dinner at home to-night. Elise gets in at four-thirty and Mr. Kinsella says he thinks there will be no doubt about her coming straight to us. He is to meet them at the station and intends to put the question immediately to Mrs. Huntington, and if her answer is favorable, he will bring Elise to us bag and baggage. So Pierce told me when he stopped in on his way to the art school to see if he could be of any service to us in the move. Oh, my mother, aren't we going to have a lovely time in our own little flat and away from that terrible dragon?" Molly kissed her mother and then flew up the steps of the balcony to the sleeping quarters that she and Judy were to occupy, just to peep out of the window into the court. Then she ran to the tiny kitchen. "I am itching to get to work on that little gas stove and see how it cooks," she exclaimed.

"Now, Molly, there is one thing I am going to put my foot down about: you are not to be working and cooking all the time we are in Paris. If this housekeeping is going to make you slave constantly, we will give it up and go back to Mrs. Pace. We will all share the work; the girls must do their part, too," and Mrs. Brown looked quite serious and determined.

"I promise, Mumsy, not to overwork but please let me do most of the cooking. I simply love to cook and I know Judy can't brew a cup of tea or boil an egg, and I fancy Elise has not had the kind of training that would make her very domestic. Of course, I'll be studying myself before so very long at the Sorbonne, and then I am afraid you will be the one to be overworked."

Just then there was a knock at the door: it proved to be the short-haired female artist from the adjoining studio. "I saw you had just moved in and I came to offer my assistance in settling you if you need me," she said in a voice singularly low and sweet for one of her very mannish appearance.

Her sandy hair was parted on the side and rather tousled, she had a freckled face and a turned-up nose, and a broad, good-natured, clever looking mouth. Her clothes were just as near being a man's as the law allowed: black Turkish trousers and a workman's blouse with paint all over the back, giving it very much the effect of the Bents' china press. Mrs. Brown and Molly looked at her wonderingly. She was a new and strange specimen to them. Their politeness was equal, however, to any shock and they thanked her for her kindness and asked her to come in.

"My name is Williams, Josephine Williams, commonly known as Jo Bill. Mrs. Bent told me of you and asked me to look after you until you got on to the ways of the Quarter and the tricks of the concierge. I thought I'd begin by asking you to afternoon tea to-morrow. I wish I could have you to-day but I've got a model posing for me and I must work every minute of daylight. I am going to get in the Kinsellas, our other neighbors, and Polly Perkins,—that is the man who lives in the court with us. He is not nearly such a big fool as he looks and talks."

"Is his name really 'Polly?'" asked Molly.

"Oh, no! He has a perfectly good man's name, but I am blessed if I remember it. Everybody calls him Polly. He is a cubist painter, you know; does the weirdest things and now has taken up a kind of cubist effect in sculpture; but you will see his things for yourself. I'd like to give him a good shaking and stand him in the corner. The poor fool can draw; made quite a name for himself at Carlo Rossi's and has a sense of color that even this crazy cult can't down. Goodness, how I am rattling on! I must fly back to my model who has rested long enough. You will come to-morrow, then? Please bring three tea cups with you," and the strange looking female strode off.

"Mother, isn't she funny? I like her, though, and think it will be grand to have tea with her and to meet 'Polly'."

"I like her, too," said Mrs. Brown. "She has such a nice, big, honest mouth. You know I never could stand little mouths. But, Molly, how on earth does she manage to wipe her paint brush on the back of her blouse and keep the front so clean? I wonder what kind of an artist she is."

"Maybe she is a futurist or a symbolist. Anyhow, she is very cordial and kind. I wish Aunt Clay could know that we are to have tea with a woman in trousers and a long-haired man."

The shops in the Rue Brea proved to be all that could be desired. A delightful little coffee, tea and chocolate shop was the first to be visited. It was no bigger than their tiled kitchen, but was lined with mirrors which gave it quite a spacious effect. The madame who presided was lovely and looked just like a cocoa advertisement in her cap and apron. They made their purchases of freshly ground Mocha-and-Java coffee and chocolate. The tea they had been warned against by the Marquise d'Ochte. "Never get tea from a French shop or let a French person make it for you. Tea is beyond the ken of the French."

Then they went to a creamery, painted white inside and out as are all the creameries in Paris. There were great pyramids of butter ranged along the marble counter according to its freshness, with rosy girls deftly patting off pounds and half pounds, quarter pounds and even two sous' worth. Molly and her mother followed their noses to the freshest pyramid. It seemed to be just out of the churn and Molly declared that it made her homesick for Aunt Mary and the dairy at Chatsworth. They bought some of the delicious unsalted butter for dinner and left an order for a fresh pat to be sent in every morning for breakfast, also milk and cream and eggs.

Next came the grocery where they got their list of dull necessities in the way of flour, lard, salt, pepper, sugar and what not. Then the bakery, to order the little crescent rolls, croissants, to be sent in every morning and also to purchase a crusty loaf for dinner.

"Mother, smell that smell!" exclaimed Molly as they left the bakery. "What can it be? It is a mixture of all good cooking but I can't distinguish any particular odor."

Next to the bakery was a poultry shop, with every kind of winged creature hanging from hooks, inside and out: turkeys, ducks, chickens, geese, guineas, grouse, pigeons, partridges. In the back of the small, dark shop was a great open fireplace where logs of wood were blazing brightly, and in front of this fire were a series of spits, one over the other, stretching across the whole fireplace, all arranged to turn by a common crank. On these spits were stuck specimens of the different birds, and a fat, red-faced youth in white cap and blouse turned the spit and basted the browning fowls from a long, deep trough which caught all of the drippings. And so it happened that the turkeys borrowed delicacy from the pigeons; and the chickens, flavor from the wild duck, etc. And the gravy: Oh that gravy! All the perfumes of Araby could not equal it. The Browns were carried away by their discovery of this wonderful place. They immediately purchased a fine fat hen and monsieur, the proprietor, promised to have it roasted and sent hot to them by six-thirty.

"And please give us a whole lot of gravy, beaucoup de jus," demanded Molly.

The charming fat boy gave her a beaming smile and determined to take an extra quantity to the beautiful Americaine if he lost his job as spitter.

The dinner was a great success. Elise did come directly from the station as they had hoped she would, and she was so happy at being made one of the gay little crowd in the Rue Brea and so grateful to Mrs. Brown for taking her into her fold, that it made all of them glad to have her.

"Isn't it splendid to be able to loosen up and undress for dinner? It is especially fine when the dinner is so delicious," exclaimed Elise. "I am going to learn how to cook, if Molly will help me. Mamma never would let me go near the kitchen, and do you know I have never even seen any uncooked food except in shop windows and don't know a raw beefsteak from an old boot leg?"

"Papa says a French chef can cook up a boot leg with a sauce surprise that you couldn't for the life of you tell from the finest kind of steak. Now this roast chicken is the best I have ever tasted, with a gravy that has the squawk of the wild duck and the coo of a pigeon and——" but here Judy stopped to help herself plentifully to the wonderful gravy and Molly finished out her speech for her:

"And the gobble of a turkey; and what attribute of the goose?"

The table in the studio, with its bowl of chrysanthemums, strips of Japanese toweling in lieu of a cloth, and odd blue china was very attractive. The china was odd in two senses of the word, as not a single saucer matched its cup and no two plates were of the same size. But what mattered that? Was not the coffee in the cups of the hottest and clearest and strongest? Was not the chicken and gravy, on the miscellaneous plates, food for the gods? Was not the rice, a la New Orleans, a marvel of culinary skill? Where but in Paris could one find such crusty bread and delicious butter? The salade Romaine was crisp and fresh and Judy had made the salad dressing. It was her one accomplishment in the way of preparing food. She did it in great style and was always much hurt if any one else was given her job.

"Judy reminds me of Garrick and ought to make the dressing, anyhow," said Molly. "You remember what Sydney Smith said of him: 'Our Garrick's a salad, for in him we see, oil, vinegar, pepper, and mustard agree.'"

"Do you know the Spanish recipe for salad dressing?" asked Elise. "'A spendthrift for oil; a niggard for vinegar; a sane man for salt and a maniac for beating it.'"

Judy was proving her suitability by beating so vigorously and clicking so loudly with the fork, that a gentle knock on the door had to be sharply repeated before they were sure of it. There was a general scramble from the kimonoed crowd, who were not expecting a visitor at this hour. But Mrs. Brown, who wore a black China silk wrapper and was always presentable, went to the door where a small boy in a long white linen apron and a baker's cap stood with a huge flat basket on his head.

"Un gateau pour Madame Brune."

"But we have not ordered a cake."

But the small boy was sure it was a cake for Mrs. Brown, and when the great flat basket was lifted from his head, there, in verity, was reposing a beautiful mocha cake with Mrs. Brown's name and address distinctly written on a card, but nothing else.

"An anonymous cake for Mumsy," laughed Molly. "Oh, you chaperone!"

There was another knock at the door, which this time turned out to be a bunch of violets apiece for the four ladies from Mr. Kinsella and a box of chocolates from Pierce.

"Why, this is a house warming, girls! What next? I wonder who sent the cake."

Mrs. Brown cut generous slices of that specialite of Paris, with its luscious, soft coffee-flavored covering, hardly an icing, as it is too soft and creamy to be called that.

"Ah, j'en ai jusque a la," said Judy, disposing of the last crumb of cake and making a motion of cutting her throat with her hand, "which in plain English means 'stuffed'. I am glad we can't eat the violets. Maybe after we move around a little we can hold some chocolates, but not yet, not yet!"

Mrs. Brown and Molly began to clear off the table, but they were forcibly held by Elise and Judy who insisted that the scullions' part was theirs.

"Mamma tried to make me promise to stand twenty minutes after meals for form's sake, I mean my own form," said Elise. "And what could be better than washing dishes for the complexion? A good steaming is what Mamma has said I need, as she declares I am so sallow, so I shall steam over the dishpan. Let's make a rule never to leave the dishes, no matter how tired we are. Mr. Kinsella says that when he and my father were sharing a studio here in Paris, when they were boys, they used to leave the dishes until they had used up all their supply; and then they would turn them over and eat off the bottoms of the plates. He says those careless ways are what disgust one finally with Bohemia."

"It was certainly kind of Mr. Kinsella to remember me, too, and send me a bunch of violets," said Judy as she wiped the cups Elise was washing.

"Mr. Kinsella is always kind," said Elise. "There never was such a thoughtful man. I feel so grateful to him, and I am going to work like a Trojan to let him see how I appreciate his interest in me." Elise blushed rather more than mere gratitude called for, and Judy thought that the dish water steaming was improving her complexion greatly already. She determined to wash next time herself and let Elise do the drying!



CHAPTER XI.

A STUDIO TEA IN THE LATIN QUARTER.

"The only thing that worries me in this delightful arrangement of co-operative housekeeping is the accounts," sighed Mrs. Brown at breakfast the next morning. "I am such a poor hand at arithmetic and a franc is so like a quarter that it is hard for me to remember it is only twenty cents; and a sou is so huge and heavy, I feel that it must be more than a cent. I pin my faith to a five franc piece which is like and is a dollar. I'd turn the money part over to Molly if she were not even worse than I am about it."

"Don't give it to me, please," begged Molly. "You know dear old Nance Oldham used to say I could do without money but I could not keep it."

"Well, Mrs. Brown, you should not be bothered to death about it, and I think we should elect a secretary and treasurer; and since there is no one here fitted to fill the place, I propose a new member to our club." Judy got up and reached from a high plate rack a funny, glazed Toby jug.

"I propose the name of Sir Toby Belch as a member of this club."

"I second the nomination and wish to offer an amendment to the motion," said Elise: "that the said Sir Toby be made secretary and treasurer of this association. All in favor of this amendment say 'Aye,' contrary 'No.' The ayes have it. Now are we ready to vote on the motion?"

The result was that Sir Toby Belch was unanimously elected and Mrs. Brown's duties were lightened. The plan was that every week the four members of the Co-operative Housekeepers' Association should put into Sir Toby a certain amount of money which would be drawn out for expenses as the occasion arose. If Sir Toby should get hungry and empty before the week was up, an assessment was to be made on all of the members and he was to be fed, even if it did happen to be between meals for him. If any member should be out of funds at the time, she could give an I. O. T. (I Owe Toby) which could be cashed when convenient.

"Dear lady, you shall not be worried," said Elise affectionately. "I believe this arrangement with Sir Toby will work beautifully."

And so it did. Sometimes Toby would get very lean and hungry and the few stray sous left in him would clink dismally against his ribs; and again he would be bursting with silver, paper and copper. Sometimes he would have to suspend payment until he could negotiate his I. O. T.'s., and sometimes when the week was up and all outstanding bills settled, he would be so affluent that he would treat the whole crowd to the theater or give a party to the friends in the Latin Quarter. Many a jest was made at his expense and sometimes Mrs. Brown and Judy, both of them able to quote Shakespeare at any point, would give whole pages of "Twelfth Night," impersonating the immortal Sir Toby and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek and the naughty Maria.

Our friends went to many studio teas during their stay in Paris, but the first one with their erratic neighbor, Miss Jo Bill, they never forgot. Her studio was the size of their own but had no apartment attached. The hostess slept in a balcony, similar to the one Judy and Molly occupied, and her housekeeping and sleeping arrangements were much in evidence. Molly, going over ahead of the others to take the three tea cups requested, found Miss Williams washing her own five cups with their varied assortment of saucers and clearing off a table littered with papers and magazines, preparatory to placing the alcohol lamp, kettle and teapot thereon.

"Do let me help you," begged Molly. "Where is your tea towel? I can wipe the cups."

"Tea towel!" exclaimed Miss Williams. "Why, I don't possess such a thing! If the water is good and hot and clean, you don't need a towel. Just let the dishes drain. It is much more sanitary. Towels are awful germ harborers. But if you want to help, you might straighten up this table. Don't ask for a cloth or you will embarrass me."

Molly accordingly went to work and got order out of chaos in a short while. She piled the papers and magazines neatly on a shelf; emptied the teapot of its former drawing of leaves; washed and rinsed it; filled the kettle with fresh water; and replenished the alcohol lamp from a bottle of wood alcohol she found on the shelf.

"Well, if you aren't a peach, Miss Brown!" said the admiring Jo Bill. "I bet you are dying to go up on my roost and clear it out some. I was going to let it alone hoping to make it so interesting en bas that no one would glance up; but if you feel a calling to go up there and stir around a little, you are welcome."

Molly was itching to get her hands on the balcony, which reminded her of Mrs. Jellyby's closet, full to overflowing with every conceivable and inconceivable thing. The floor was strewn with coats, dresses and hats while the shoes were neatly hung on a row of hooks. Very pretty, well-shaped shoes they were, too, as it seemed Jo's feet were her one vanity.

"I never make up my bed, but just kick the covers over the dash board and let it air all day. Much more sanitary than tucking the germs in, giving them chance to multiply. You can make it up if you want to, though, since we are by the way of giving a party. Yes, hang up the dresses if you think it will improve the looks of things. I keep my shoes on the hooks so they can dry well and not be losing themselves all the time. I don't often need the dresses as I usually wear these painting togs. By Jove, speaking of dresses, I fancy I ought to put on one this afternoon! I wonder if your mother would think I was not showing her proper respect if I just put on a clean blouse and didn't try to get into one of those pesky dresses."

"Oh, don't dress up for mother, please! She would feel bad if she thought her coming would make any trouble for you, and besides, you hardly have time to do much; it is after five now," laughed Molly.

So Jo pulled off her workman's blouse and donned a clean one.

"Please tell me what makes you wipe your paint brushes on your back and how you manage it," asked Molly.

"What a question!" roared the amused Jo. "I wipe the brushes on the front of my blouses until it gets too gummy, and then I turn it hind part before. You and your mother must have thought I was some contortionist yesterday," and she extracted a hair brush from one of the shoes hanging on a hook and gave her tousled hair a vigorous punishment.

"Shall I put this tub out of sight?" asked Molly, picking up a great English hat tub.

"No, indeed, leave it there. I always put it where Polly Perkins can see it to shame him. You see he is as tidy as I am careless, but he leads an unhealthy, uncleanly life in spite of all of his pernickity ways, and I am really very sanitary and healthy in spite of all of my untidiness. In the first place, I take a cold bath every morning of my life and sleep in a hurricane of fresh air; and if my bed is in a mess, you notice my sheets are clean; while Polly is one of these once-a-weekers as to baths, and he is afraid of opening windows and letting in dust, and he makes up his bed the minute he gets out of it, animal heat, germs and all."

Molly was vastly amused and interested in her neighbor and her evident rivalry with the long-haired cubist, whom she now saw daintily picking his way across the court, in velveteen jacket and Byronic collar with the loose flowing tie common in the Latin Quarter. In his hand he held a stiff bouquet of red and yellow chrysanthemums, which, bowing low, he presented to Jo as she jerked the door open at his knock.