“About those slippers, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a serious business. The doctor and my aunt here have cockered up that little Metzerott till he thinks himself the equal of the Tsar of Russia. Those slippers are his work, and his gift”—
“My boy,” said Henry Randolph kindly, “do you suppose I have been on Wall Street for twenty years without ability enough to manage one sixteen-year-old girl?”
“By George, sir, a sixteen-year-old girl”—
“As I understand it, Frank, the fellow’s name is Louis, not George. Did you see this?” He held up a card, on which was daintily inscribed, “Many Birthday Wishes from Louis.”
“Truly touching! the young upstart!” growled Frank.
“Just so; and you will now, perhaps, give me credit for a little discrimination. Rose has not seen this, or it would not have been left where it was—in the toe of a slipper—for me to find; therefore the thing is an advertisement, pure and simple; do you understand?”
“I see!” said Frank, with a smile of profound admiration.
“The boy is coming, after dinner, to give poor Fred an outing,” continued this wise father; “and I particularly desire that there shall be no rudeness on your part for Pinkie to complain of, and especially no hint of any possible romance in the situation. You know your sister”—
“Yes, as obstinate as the devil when she likes, and she generally does like.”
“Don’t swear, Frank; it is ungentlemanly, and irreligious too. Pinkie is only a child, after all—and so is the boy, for that matter. There’s no harm done yet; but, of course, I shall get her away from this as soon as possible; only, in the mean time, mind what you’re about.”