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“Well, I must say I should think she would be, if she compares them with some others.”

“Mother is always comparing,” observed Miss Ruck.

“Of course I am always comparing,” rejoined the elder lady. “I never had a chance till now; I never knew my privileges. Give me an American!” And Mrs. Ruck indulged in a little laugh.

“Well, I must say there are some things I like over here,” said Miss Sophy, with courage. And indeed I could see that she was a young woman of great decision.

“You like the shops–that’s what you like,” her father affirmed.

The young lady addressed herself to me, without heeding this remark. “I suppose you feel quite at home here.”

“Oh, he likes it; he has got used to the life!” exclaimed Mr. Ruck.

“I wish you’d teach Mr. Ruck,” said his wife. “It seems as if he couldn’t get used to anything.”

“I’m used to you, my dear,” the husband retorted, giving me a humorous look.

“He’s intensely restless,” continued Mrs. Ruck.

“That’s what made me want to come to a pension. I thought he would settle down more.”

“I don’t think I AM used to you, after all,” said her husband.

In view of a possible exchange of conjugal repartee I took refuge in conversation with Miss Ruck, who seemed perfectly able to play her part in any colloquy. I learned from this young lady that, with her parents, after visiting the British Islands, she had been spending a month in Paris, and that she thought she should have died when she left that city. “I hung out of the carriage, when we left the hotel,” said Miss Ruck, “I assure you I did. And mother did, too.”

“Out of the other window, I hope,” said I.

“Yes, one out of each window,” she replied promptly. “Father had hard work, I can tell you. We hadn’t half finished; there were ever so many places we wanted to go to.”

“Your father insisted on coming away?”

“Yes; after we had been there about a month he said he had enough. He’s fearfully restless; he’s very much out of health. Mother and I said to him that if he was restless in Paris he needn’t hope for peace anywhere. We don’t mean to leave him alone till he takes us back.” There was an air of keen resolution in Miss Ruck’s pretty face, of lucid apprehension of desirable ends, which made me, as she pronounced these words, direct a glance of covert compassion toward her poor recalcitrant father. He had walked away a little with his wife, and I saw only his back and his stooping, patient-looking shoulders, whose air of acute resignation was thrown into relief by the voluminous tranquillity of Mrs. Ruck. “He will have to take us back in September, any way,” the young girl pursued; “he will have to take us back to get some things we have ordered.”

“Have you ordered a great many things?” I asked jocosely.

“Well, I guess we have ordered SOME. Of course we wanted to take advantage of being in Paris–ladies always do. We have left the principal things till we go back. Of course that is the principal interest, for ladies. Mother said she should feel so shabby if she just passed through. We have promised all the people to be back in September, and I never broke a promise yet. So Mr. Ruck has got to make his plans accordingly.”

“And what are his plans?”

“I don’t know; he doesn’t seem able to make any. His great idea was to get to Geneva; but now that he has got here he doesn’t seem to care. It’s the effect of ill health. He used to be so bright; but now he is quite subdued. It’s about time he should improve, any way. We went out last night to look at the jewellers’ windows–in that street behind the hotel. I had always heard of those jewellers’ windows. We saw some lovely things, but it didn’t seem to rouse father. He’ll get tired of Geneva sooner than he did of Paris.”