“It’s this way,” said Mr. Dod.  “How remarkably contracted the Place de la Concorde looks down there, doesn’t it!  It’s like looking through the wrong end of an opera glass.”

“I’ve observed that,” I said.  “It won’t be fair to keep them waiting very long down there on the earth, you know, Dicky.”

“Certainly not!  Well, as I was saying, your poppa’s Aunt Caroline is a perfect fiend of a chaperone.  By Jove, Mamie, let’s be silhouetted!”

“Poppa was silhouetted,” I said, “and the artist turned him out the image of Senator Frye.  Now he doesn’t resemble Senator Frye in the least degree.  The elevator is ascending, Richard.”

Richard blushed and looked intently at the horizon beyond Montmartre.

“You see, between Miss Portheris and me, it’s this way,” he began recklessly, but with the vision before my eyes of momma on the steps below wanting her tea, I cut him short.

“So far as you are concerned, Dicky, I see the way it is,” I interposed sympathetically.  “The question is——­”

“Exactly.  So it is.  About Isabel.  But I can’t find out.  It seems to be so difficult with an English girl.  Doesn’t seem to think such a thing as a—­a proposal exists.  Now an American girl is just as ready——­”

“Richard,” I interrupted severely, “the circumstances do not require international comparisons.  By the way, how do you happen to be travelling with—­with Mr. Mafferton?”

“That’s exactly where it comes in,” Mr. Dod exclaimed luminously.  “You’d think, the way Mafferton purrs round the old lady, he’d been a friend of the family from the beginning of time!  Fact is, he met them two days before they left London. I had known them a good month, and the venerable one seemed to take to me considerably.  There wasn’t a cab she wouldn’t let me call, nor a box at the theatre she wouldn’t occupy, nor a supper she wouldn’t try to enjoy.  Used to ask me to tea.  Inquired whether I was High or Low.  That was awful, because I had to chance it, being Congregational, but I hit it right—­she’s Low, too, strong.  Isabel always made the tea out of a canister the old lady kept locked.  Singular habit that, locking tea up in a canister.”

“You are wandering, Dicky,” I said.  “And Isabel used to ask you whether you would have muffins or brown bread and butter—­I know.  Go on.”

“Girls have intuition,” remarked Mr. Dod with a glance of admiration which I discounted with contempt.  “Well, then old Mafferton turned up here a week ago.  Since then I haven’t been waltzing in as I did before.  Old lady seems to think there’s a chance of keeping the family pure English—­seems to think she’d like it better—­see?  At least, I take it that way; he’s cousin to a lord,” Dick added dejectedly, “and you know financially I’ve been coming through a cold season.”

“It’s awkward,” I admitted, “but old ladies of no family are like that over here.  I know Mrs. Portheris is an old lady of no family, because she’s a connection of ours, you see.  What about Isabel?  Can’t you tell the least bit?”