“They won’t,” said Mr. Fairfield, “so you’ll just have to engrave her on your memory.”
Though they were convinced that their theory was right, they couldn’t persuade the old Frenchman to agree with them. He admitted that the pictures were unlike the expression of the original face, but he shrugged his shoulders and said:
“Many photographs,—many postcards,—but only one orichinal!” And the rapt look in his eyes showed that he, like Patty, preferred his memory of the marble to any possible reproduction of it.
The last day they spent in Paris, Nan declared she was going to buy things.
“We’ll do plenty of sightseeing in Italy,” she said, “but there’s nothing there to buy, except heads of Dante and models of the Roman Forum.”
“And beads,” said Patty. “I’m going to get pecks of beads. Everybody expects you to bring them home a string or two.”
“All right,” said Nan, “but I mean gorgeous raiment. Paris is the only place for that. So, to-day, I buy me some wide-reaching hats, and frippery teagowns and other gewgaws. Want to go, Patsy?”
“’Deed, I do. I adore to buy feathers and frills.”
“You’re two vain butterflies,” said Mr. Fairfield, “but if you’ll excuse me from going with you on this excursion, I’ll agree to pay the bills you send home.”
This was a highly satisfactory arrangement, and the two ladies started out for a round of the shops.