“Now, Algie,” murmured Mrs. Dennant, “it 's quite a charmin' letter. Must have taken the poor young man an hour to write.”
“Oh, mother!” cried Antonia.
And Shelton felt his face go crimson. He had suddenly remembered that her French was better than her mother's.
“He seems to have had a singular experience,” said the Connoisseur.
“Yes,” echoed Mr. Dennant; “he 's had some singular experience. If you want to know the details, ask friend Shelton; it's quite romantic. In the meantime, my dear; another cup?”
The Connoisseur, never quite devoid of absent-minded malice, spurred his curiosity to a further effort; and, turning his well-defended eyes on Shelton, murmured,
“Well, Mr. Shelton, you are the historian, it seems.”
“There is no history,” said Shelton, without looking up.
“Ah, that's very dull,” remarked the Connoisseur.
“My dear Dick,” said Mrs. Dennant, “that was really a most touchin' story about his goin' without food in Paris.”