“Oh, there’s nothing unpleasant,” said Mrs. Malt, “nothing that you can notice.”

“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Malt.  “They refrigerate them, you know.  We send our beef to England by the same process——­”

“There are people,” the Senator interrupted, “who never can see anything amusing in a corpse.”

“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.

“They’ve got what you might call characteristic shows here.  You see a lot of life.”

“Can you take your ladies?” asked the Senator.

“Well of course you can, but I don’t believe they would find it interesting.”

“Too much life,” said the Senator.  “I guess that settles it for me too.  I daresay I’m lacking in originality and enterprise, but I generally ask myself about an entertainment, ’Are Mrs. and Miss Wick likely to enjoy it?’ If so, well and good.  If not, I don’t as a rule take it in.”

“He’s a great comfort that way,” remarked momma to Mrs. Malt.

“Oh, I don’t frequent them myself,” said Mr. Malt defensively.

“Talking of improprieties,” remarked Miss Callis, “have you seen the New Salon?”

There was something very unexpected about Miss Callis; momma complained of it.  Her remarks were never polished by reflection.  She called herself a child of nature, but she really resided in Brooklyn.

The Senator said we had not.

“Then don’t you go, Mr. Wick.  There’s a picture there——­”

“We never look at such pictures, Miss Callis,” momma interrupted.

“It’s so French,” said Miss Callis.

Momma drew her shawl round her preparatory to withdrawing, but it was too late.