"Pah!" says the Alsatian, "Monsieur is not so young!"
Maverick puffs at his cigar thoughtfully,—a thoughtfulness that does not encourage the Alsatian to other speech,—and in a moment more she is gone.
"Seriously, Maverick," says Papiol, when they are alone again, "what will you do with this Puritan daughter of yours?"
"Keep her from ways of wickedness," said Maverick, without losing his thoughtfulness.
"Excellent!" said the friend, laughing; "but you will hardly bring her to this home of yours, then?"
"Hardly to this country of yours, Pierre."
"Nonsense, Maverick! You will be too proud of her, mon ami. I'm sure of that. You'll never keep her cribbed yonder. We shall see you escorting her some day up and down the Prado, and all the fine young fellows hereabout paying court to the belle Americaine. My faith! I shall be wishing myself twenty years younger!"
Maverick is still very thoughtful.
"What is it, my good fellow? Is it—that the family question gives annoyance among your friends yonder?"
"On the contrary," says Maverick,—and reaching a file of letters in his cabinet, he lays before his companion that fragment of the Doctor's epistle which had spoken of the rosary, and of his discovery that it had been the gift of the mother, "so near, and he trusted dear a relative."