"My father's in England," said Betty; "he's a clergyman."
"I generally say mine was," said the other, "but I won't to you, because you'd believe me. My father was church organist, though. And the Vicarage people were rather fond of me. I used to do a lot of Parish work." She laughed again.
Betty laid a hand on the other woman's.
"Couldn't you go home to your father—or—something?" she asked feebly.
"He's cursed me forever—Put it all down in black and white—a regular commination service. It's you that have got to go home, and do it now, too." She shook off Betty's hand and waved her own to a man who was passing.
"Here, Mr. Temple—"
The man halted, hesitated and came up to them.
"Look here," said the black-browed woman, "look what a pretty flower I've found,—and here of all places!"
She indicated Betty by a look. The man looked too, and took the third chair at their table. Betty wished that the ground might open and cover her, but the Boule Miche asphalt is solid. The new-comer was tall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome, serious, boyish face, and fair hair.
"She won't listen to me—"