Sœurette said nothing. Her instinct told her that all this did not concern her; that her business was to keep quiet, and that big sisters have cares which she could not understand. But she saw that Helia was in trouble, in great trouble; and Sœurette wished to see her full of joy, as she had once been. Her good little heart had a touching inspiration. She drew a mark across her letter and ended it up as follows:
“Little Jesus, keep your playthings for the poor, but tell Phil to be good to my big sister, who used to play all the while and tell me stories. Make him to be not so wicked, for she cries often when she speaks about him. I put my kiss here for you, Little Jesus.”
And Sœurette did as she had seen Helia do: before slipping the letter into the envelop she placed a kiss at the end of it, and made a circle with her pen all around the spot.
CHAPTER VI
THE OLD, OLD STORY
An automobile, with Miss Rowrer’s brother Will conducting it himself, was rolling slowly along. Will had just arrived from America, to rest in France from the worries of business. He had bought for his sister this magnificent “forty-horse-power” machine; and, with a chauffeur to indicate the way for him, he had the pleasure of taking Ethel and grandma for a ride through Paris. That day, on the seats behind him, there were his sister and grandma, and, facing them, the Duke of Morgania alone.
“Oh, there’s Monsieur Phil!” Miss Rowrer said, as the auto stopped at a crossing thronged with hucksters and good-wives in morning undress.
“Good day, Monsieur Phil!”
Phil was on the sidewalk, two steps from Miss Rowrer. He was in his studio dress, a short coat over his sweater. He had come out to buy something and was going home with a package done up in paper in his hand. Hearing his name, he raised his head, recognized Miss Rowrer, bowed, and then approached in visible embarrassment. The vizor of his cap ill concealed the eye which Socrate had chanced to blacken with his fist the night before.
“Our friend Phil does his own marketing,” Ethel said, laughing. “He is right. I’ve heard from the Hon. Mr. Charley that nothing is equal to a good beefsteak as a plaster for a black eye.”
“Well, I suppose I must tell you,” said Phil, not wishing that Miss Rowrer should think he had fought with a lamp-post. “This is how it happened: I got it last night while punishing a rough fellow for ill-treating a poor dog.”