"It doesn't make any difference to me, but if I run into old Mons. Fournier I won't dare tell him. It would spoil the whole thing for him. He'll think I was just boasting. Gosh he got a lot of fun out of it."
"Fournier, there's a Jacques Fournier that plays first base for the White Sox."
"No, this man's named Antoine. He's the old French teacher I was telling you about. Maybe they're related. He never said anything about it."
"In these letters about the opera and singing and all that," asked Peter, "did Maria Algarez ever suggest that you ought to try and be a singer."
Pat broke into unrestrained merriment. "Good God! no," he said and added quickly, "I beg your pardon, Father, I didn't mean to curse but it would be so funny if Maria'd said anything like that about me."
Peter was nettled. "If you're going to call me 'father' why don't you call her 'mother'?"
"I'm sorry; I know you don't like to be called 'father'. I won't do it again."
"All right, but you haven't answered my question. Don't you ever think of calling her 'mother'?"
"Maria Algarez? No, it would sound so funny. I've never seen her. She doesn't seem like my mother or anybody's mother. She's around singing before people and all that. And look at her picture."
He took one out of his pocket and handed it across the table. For the first time since the conversation had turned upon Maria Peter smiled. He recognized the picture. He too had had one just like it a good many years ago. It was taken two or three months before he married Maria Algarez. However, Peter let it pass without comment.