"They don't let you in as a matter of course," Mr. Malt went on. "You have to pretend that you're looking for a relation."
"We had to mention Uncle Sammy," said Mrs. Malt.
"An uncle of Mis' Malt's who went to California in '49 and was never heard of afterward," Mr. Malt explained. "First use he's ever been to his family. Well, there they were, seven of 'em, lying there looking at you yesterday. All in good condition. I was told they have a place downstairs for the older ones."
"Alexander," said momma faintly, "I think I should like a little brandy in my coffee. Were there—were there any ladies among them, Mr. Malt?"
"Three," Mr. Malt responded briskly, "and one of them had her hair——"
"Then please don't tell us about them," momma exclaimed, and the silence that ensued was one of slight indignation on the part of the Malt family.
"You been seeing the town at all, evenings?" Mr. Malt inquired of the Senator.
"I can't say I have. We've been seeing so much of it in the daytime, we haven't felt able to enjoy anything at night except our beds," poppa returned with his accustomed candour.
"Just so. All the same there's a good deal going on in Paris after supper."
"So I've always been told," said the Senator, lighting another cigar.