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So once more Mrs. Williams became a lovely, trailing figure out of the seventh heaven, and Fitz, stoical but bored, followed her into the court-yard of the hotel. Here were little iron tables and chairs, four symmetrical flower-beds containing white gravel, four palm-trees in tubs, their leaves much speckled with coal smuts; a French family at breakfast (the stout father had unbuttoned his white waistcoat); and in a corner by herself an American child sitting upon one of the puff-seated iron chairs, one leg under her, one leg, long, thin, and black, swinging free, and across her lap a copy of a fashion paper.

On perceiving Mrs. Williams the child at once came forward, and dropped the most charming little courtesy imaginable.

“How do you do?” she said. “Poor, dear mamma isn’t a bit well. But I said that she would see you, Mrs. Williams. She said yesterday that she wanted so much to see you.”

In the event Mrs. Williams went up three flights in the elevator that you worked yourself; only on this occasion the proprietor, hastily slipping into his frock-coat and high hat (you could see him at it through the office window), worked it for her. And Fitz remained with the gloomy prospect of being entertained by little Miss Burton.

She was younger than Fitz by two years and older by ten–a serene, knowing, beautiful child. When Fitz proposed that they sit in the victoria, as softer than the iron chairs, she called him a funny boy, but she assented. And as they went she tossed aside her fashion paper, remarking, “You wouldn’t care for that.”

When they had settled down into the soft, leather cushions of the victoria she sighed luxuriously and said:

“This is nice! I wish–” and broke off short.

“What?” asked Fitz.

“Oh,” she said, “that the horses would start, and take us all over Paris and back, and everybody would see us go by, and envy us. But mamma and I,” she said, “are devoted to fiacres–not smart, are they?”

“I don’t mind,” said Fitz, “if they go where I tell ’em to, and don’t set up a row over the pourboire.”

“Still,” said she, “it must be nice to have carriages and things. We used to have. Only I can hardly remember. Mamma says I have a dreadfully short memory.”

“How long have you been abroad?” Fitz asked.

“Dear me,” she said, “ever so long. I don’t remember.”

“Won’t it be fun,” said Fitz, “to go home?”

“America?” She hesitated. “Mamma says it’s all so crude and rude. I forget.”

“Don’t you remember America!” exclaimed Fitz, much horrified.

“Not clearly,” she admitted.

“I guess you never saw Cleveland, Ohio, then,” said Fitz, “‘n’ Euclid Avenue, ‘n’ Wade Park, ‘n’ the cannons in the square, ‘n’ the breakwater, ‘n’ never eat Silverthorn’s potatoes at Rocky River, ‘n’ never went to a picnic at Tinker’s Creek, ‘n’ never saw Little Mountain ‘n’ the viaduct.”

“You are quite right,” said little Miss Burton, “I never did.”

“When I grow up,” said Fitz in a glow of enthusiasm, “I’m going to live in America ‘n’ have a tower on my house with a flagpole, ‘n’ a cannon to let off every sunset and sunrise.”

“I shouldn’t like that,” said she, “if I were sleeping in the house at the time.”

“I shouldn’t be sleeping,” said Fitz; “I’d be up early every morning to let the cannon off.”

“I remember Newport a little,” she said. “I’d live there if I were you. Newport is very smart for America, mamma says. We’re going to Newport when I grow up. I’m sure it will be nicer if you are there.”

Fitz thought this very likely, but was too modest to say so.

“If I ever go to Newport,” he said, “it will be as captain of a cup defender.”

“I heard your mother call you Fitz,” said little Miss Burton. “Is that your name, or do you have them?”

“F-i-t-z-h-u-g-h,” said Fitz, “is my name.”

“Any middle name?”

“No.”

“That’s smarter,” said she. “I haven’t either.”