"Oh, no," Ruth's voice affected a dreary cadence. "He didn't so much as lift his eyelashes,—his very—long—eyelashes."
"It was the other one then," said Frank, "the bullet-eyed acrobat."
"It doesn't matter in the least, Francis," said Mrs. Laniston, with dignity.
"That manager is really the handsomest man I ever saw," said the discreet Frank. "The clerk of the hotel tells me that he is so considered by everybody. In Duroc's celebrated painting of 'The Last Day,' he is posed as the angel Gabriel. Why, his nickname is 'Beauty'—he goes among his pals by the euphonious appellation of 'Beaut' Lloyd."
Frank had finished his dinner and he was showing some inclination to rock his chair to and fro; he imagined that this was why his mother frowned at him.
"What is his real name?" Lucia asked, unexpectedly.
"Why, child, how should he know?" Mrs. Laniston had risen, and tapped sharply on her niece's shoulder with rather admonitory knuckly fingers.
"Why, Francis passed his exams all right; I should think that he was far enough advanced to be able to construe the hotel register at all events."
"And there he is enrolled as Hilary Chester Lloyd," said Frank genially.
"Not a bad name," said Ruth casually.