“Lucy, how very mercenary!” reproved Jessie.
“Don’t you call my sister names,” said Phil, who was always pretending surprise at Jessie’s long words.
“I’ve been wondering about that myself,” said Lucile, ignoring Phil’s remark. “Now that we’re going to France, perhaps we will hear something about him.”
“France is supposed to be a respectable-sized town,” said Phil, with what was meant to be biting sarcasm. “It’s not like Burleigh, where Angela Peabody can tell you the history of everybody in town, and then some. We might be in Paris a year and never hear a word about him.”
“I realize that quite as well as you do, brother, dear,” said Lucile, sweetly. “However, you must admit that there is more chance of our finding out something about the gentleman in France than there was in London.”
“Or in Egypt,” Phil agreed, and Lucile gave up with a little shrug of her shoulders.
“Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway; only I would like to know the end. It’s like starting to read an interesting serial story in a magazine, and just when you get to the most exciting part, you come up against a ‘To be continued in our next.’ Look!” she added, irrelevantly, clutching Jessie’s wrist and pointing upward. “Now the cloud has changed shape again. It’s the image of old Jim’s dog, Bull.”
Phil turned away in utter disgust. “You don’t have to go to Bronx Park to see the zoo,” he muttered.
“Not when we have you with us,” Jessie retorted, at which Phil retreated in undignified haste.
The girls turned laughingly to each other.