"But you've a good Papa," said Léonie.
"Yes," said Gladys, rather doubtfully, for somehow the idea of a real flesh-and-blood Papa seemed to be getting more instead of less indistinct now that they were soon to see him. "But he's been away such a very long time."
"Poor darlings," said Léonie.
"And have you no Papa, no little brothers, not any one like that?" inquired Gladys.
"I have some cousins—very good people," said Léonie. "They live in Paris, where we are now going. If there had been time I should have liked to go to see them. But we shall stay no time in Paris—just run from one station to the other."
"But the luggage?" said Gladys. "Mrs. Marton has a lot of boxes. I don't see how you can run if you have them to carry. I think it would be better to take a cab, even if it does cost a little more. But perhaps there are no cabs in Paris. Is that why you talk of running to the station?"
Léonie had burst out laughing half-way through this speech, and though she knew it was not very polite, she really could not help it. The more she tried to stop, the more she laughed.
"What is the matter?" said Gladys at last, a little offended.
"I beg your pardon," said Léonie; "I know it is rude. But, Mademoiselle, the idea"—and here she began to laugh again—"of Monsieur and Madame and me all running with the boxes! It was too amusing!"
Gladys laughed herself now, and so did Roger.