"To-day," said Madame Raymond, "I intend to take you to the Cluny Museum, and then we shall begin the Louvre."
"But," I protested, "I want to go first to Morgan Harjes."
"What for? Madame your mother gave me fifty francs this morning."
"She gave me a hundred and fifty. It isn't for money. I want my letters."
"If there are any letters for you, Madame your mother will give them to you if it is good for you to have them!" snapped Madame Raymond.
"Fiddlesticks! My mother doesn't read my letters."
"Letters written to a jeune fille of sixteen years can easily wait. They are not important. Your education is. Anyway, who would write to you over here?"
"Well, there is Bill. I'm crazy to know if he passed his examinations for Yale and how he liked going to the dance at the Country Club with Margaret when he asked me first. Joe and Charlie went off on a fishing trip to Canada before I sailed, and I've been waiting a month to know if they caught anything. Then Harold. He's an older man. You can talk to him about serious things and his advice is pretty good. Naturally, it would be—Harold is a member of the bar and knows lots."
"But," said Madame, "you mean to say you write to men and men write to you?"
"Certainly. Just ask mother. Here, I know how to fix it. You seem to be in a hurry to go to the Museum. If it interests you, go right along. I'll take a cab to the bank and follow you later. Meet you at the Cluny in an hour."