“But the fact is,” he said in self-defence, “we may get back for lunch and we may not.”

“That’s all right,” the gentleman replied with distinct relief.  “I didn’t mind the omelette or the sole, but when it came to fried chicken and strawberries I just had to speak out.  You going to make a long stay in Paris?”

As they launched to conversation momma and I glanced at each other with mutual congratulation.  It was at last obvious that the Senator was going to enjoy his European experiences; we had been a little doubtful about it.  Left to ourselves, we discussed our breakfast and the waiters, the only French people we could see from where we sat, and expressed our annoyance, which was great, at being offered tooth-picks.  I was so hungry that it was only when I asked for a third large roll that I noticed momma regarding me with mild disapproval.

“I fear,” she said with a little sigh, “that you are thinking very little of what is past and gone, love.”

“Momma,” I replied, “don’t spoil my breakfast.”  When momma can throw an emotional chill over anything, I never knew her to refrain.  “I should like that garcon to bring me some more bread,” I continued.

Momma sighed even more deeply.  “You may have part of mine,” she replied, breaking it with a gesture that said such callousness she could not understand.  Her manner for the next few minutes expressed distinctly that she, at least, meant to do her duty by Arthur.

Presently from the other side of poppa came the words, “Not Wick of Chicago!”

“I guess I can’t deny it,” said poppa.

“Senator Wick?”

Poppa lowered his voice.  “If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “not for the present.  Just plain Joshua P. Wick.  I’m not what you call travelling incognito, do you see, but, so far as the U.S.  Senate is concerned, I haven’t got it with me.”

“Well, sir, I won’t mention it again.  But all the same, if I may be allowed to say so, I am pleased to meet you, sir—­very pleased.  I suppose they wired you that Mike McConnell’s got the Post Office.”

Poppa held out his hand in an instant of speechless gratitude.  “Sir,” he said, “they did not.  Put it there.  I said no wires and no letters, and I’ve been sorry for it ever since.  Momma,” he continued, “daughter, allow me to present to you Mr.?—­Mr. Malt, who has heard by cablegram that our friend Mr. McConnell is Postmaster-General of Chicago.”

Momma was grateful, too, though she expressed it somewhat more distantly.  Momma has a great deal of manner with strangers; it sometimes completely disguises her real feeling toward them.  I was also grateful, though I merely bowed, and kicked the Senator under the table.  Nobody would have guessed from our outward bearing the extent to which our political fortunes, as a family, were mixed up with Mike McConnell’s.  Mr. Malt immediately said that if there was anything else he could do for us he was at our service.