“I should like that very much,” Nancy said.
“I am glad the sick gentleman is called Gaspard. So many messieurs—I mean gentlemen in Paris are called Gaspard, and hardly any in the United States of America. American things are very different from things in Paris, don’t you think so, Miss Dear?”
“I’m afraid they are,” Nancy acquiesced gravely.
“I’m afraid they are too,” the child said, “but afraid is what I try not to be of them. My father says America is full of beasts and devils, but he does not mind because he can paint them.”
“Do you live in a studio?” Nancy asked after a struggle to prevent herself from asking the question. She felt that she had no right to 137 any of the facts about Collier Pratt’s existence that he did not choose to volunteer for himself.
“Yes, Miss Dear, but not like Paris. There we had a door that opened into a garden, and the birds sang there, and I was allowed to go and play. Here we have only a fire-escape, and the concierge is only a janitor and will not allow us to keep milk bottles on it. I do not like a janitor. Concierges have so much more politesse. Now, no one takes care of me when father goes out, or brings me soup or gâteaux when he forgets.”
“Does he forget?” Nancy cried, horrified.
“Sometimes. He forgets himself, too, very often except dinner. He remembers that because he likes to come to this Outside Inn restaurant, where the cooking is so good. He brought me here to-day because it was my birthday. I think the cooking is very good except that I was so sick of eating it, but father swore to-day that it was not.”
“Swore?”
“He said damn. That is not very bad swearing. I think nom de Dieu is worse, don’t you, Miss Dear?”