"Glad to meet ye, ma'am," he said. "Thought I'd take the wife and kids over to the Island. The painter-lady found me a job last week. It's only a coal wagon, but it's one o' them five-ton ones with three horses. They're them big French dappled gray ones."
I looked at Frances, fearing that this mention of his steeds might bring back to her the big Percherons of Paris, the omnibuses climbing the Montmartre hill or rattling through the Place St. Michel, that is the throbbing heart of the Latin Quarter. But she is a woman, as I may have mentioned a hundred times before this. Her interest went out to the child, and she bent over to one side and took a little hand within hers.
"I hope you were not hurt," she said, tenderly.
At the recollection of the injury the little mouth puckered up for an instant. Diplomatically, I advanced a chocolate and the crisis was averted.
"She's a darling, Mr. Sullivan," ventured Frances.
"Yes'm, that's what me and Loo thinks," he assented. "But you'd oughter see Buster. Wait a minute!"
About ten seconds later he returned with a slightly bashful and very girlish little wife, who struggled under the weight of a ponderous infant.
"Mr. Cole, Loo," the Kid introduced me, "and—and I guess Mrs. Cole."
"No," I objected, firmly. "There is no Mrs. Cole. I beg to make you acquainted with Mrs. Dupont. Please take my chair, Mrs. Sullivan, you will find it very comfortable. My young friend, may I offer you a cigar?"
"I'm agreeable, sir," said the young man, graciously. "I've give up the ring now, so I don't train no more."