Myrna's impatience bore fruit. In ten minutes she was ready, and, running down the stairs, went out to the street, where her father and the curé, deep in conversation—on art undoubtedly, since her father was doing most of the talking!—were pacing slowly up and down, as they waited for her.
Her sunbonnet was swinging in her hand, the big grey eyes were shining, the glow of superb health was in her cheeks.
"Good morning, Father Anton!" she called out gaily. "What a shame to have kept you waiting!"
The old priest turned toward her with unaffected pleasure, as he held out his hand.
"Good morning to you, mademoiselle"—he was smiling with eyes as well as lips. "What a radiant little girl! It makes one full of life and young again; you are, let me see, you are—a tonic!"
She laughed as she turned to her father.
"'Morning, Dad! Sleep well?"
Henry Bliss removed his cigar to survey his daughter with whimsical reproach; then he patted her cheek affectionately.
"Fierce, wasn't it?" he chuckled. "Those beds are the worst ever! I was telling the curé here about them."
"It is too bad," said Father Anton solicitously. "It is regrettable. I am so very sorry. But"—earnestly—"you must not think too hardly of the Fregeaus. Since no guests sleep here, I am sure they can have no idea that—"