"Yes, I do," said Adela, "and I've got some sketches to take back, and
Mademoiselle will be glad of that."
"And you'll go on drawing and painting until you get to be a great artist," ran on Polly, enthusiastically, "and then we'll see something you've done, in the Louvre, maybe."
"The Louvre!" cried Adela; "O dear me, Polly Pepper."
"I don't care," said Polly, recklessly, pushing back the little rings of brown hair from her brow, "they'll be good enough, the pictures you are going to do, to put into the Louvre, anyway, Adela Gray."
Tom Selwyn had been very sober during all this merry chatter; and now in his seat across the narrow aisle, he drummed his heels impatiently on the floor. His mother looked over at him, and slipping out of her seat, went over to him. "Any room here, Tom, for mother?" she said.
"Oh,—ah,—I should say so!" Tom slipped out, gave her the window seat, then flew back.
"Now, this is comfy," observed Mrs. Selwyn, as the train sped on. "Tom, see here!"
"What's up, little mother?" asked Tom, in surprise, at her unusual manner.
"It's just this, Tom. You know we are going to Chamonix and up the Mer de Glace with Mr. King's party."
Tom bobbed his head, not allowing himself to exclaim, "But that will be only a short journey, now, and we must soon say 'good-by.'"