The two gentlemen were smoking; we could see nothing but the ends of their cigars glowing in their immediate vicinity.  Momma was saying that the situation was very romantic, and Mr. Malt had assured her that it was nothing to what we would experience in Italy.  “That’s where you get romance,” said Mr. Malt, and his cigar end dropped like a falling star as he removed the ash.  “Italy’s been romantic ever since B.C.  All through the time the rest of the world was inventing Magna Chartas and Doomsday Books, and Parliaments, and printing presses, and steam engines, Italy’s gone right on turning out romance.  Result is, a better quality of that article to be had in Italy to-day than anywhere else.  Further result, twenty million pounds spent there annually by tourists from all parts of the civilised world.  Romance, like anything else, can be made to pay.”

“Are we likely to find the beds——­” began Mrs. Malt plaintively.

“Oh dear yes, Mrs. Malt!” interrupted momma, who thought everything entomological extremely indelicate.  “Perfectly.  You have only to go to the hotels the guide-books recommend, and everything will be quite propre.”

“Well,” said Emmeline, “they may be propre in Italy, but they’re not propre in Paris.  We had to speak to the housemaid yesterday morning, didn’t we, mother?  Don’t you remember the back of my neck?”

“We all suffered!” declared Mrs. Malt.

“And I showed one to her, mother, and all she would say was, ’Jamais ici, mademoiselle, ici, jamais!’ And there it was you know.”

“Emmeline,” said her father, “isn’t it about time for you to want to go to bed?”

“Not by about three hours.  I’m going to get up a little music first.  Do you play, Mis’ Wick?”

Momma said she didn’t, and Miss Malt disappeared in search of other performers.  “Don’t you go asking strangers to play, Emmeline,” her mother called after her.  “They’ll think it forward of you.”

“When Emmeline leaves us,” said her father, “I always have a kind of abandoned feeling, like a top that’s got to the end of its spin.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the Senator said he thought he could understand that.

“Well,” continued Mr. Malt, “you’ve had three whole days now.  I presume you’re beginning to know your way around.”

“I think we may say we’ve made pretty good use of our time,” responded the Senator.  “This morning we had a look in at the Luxembourg picture gallery, and the Madeleine, and Napoleon’s Tomb, and the site of the Bastile.  This afternoon we took a run down to Notre Dame Cathedral.  That’s a very fine building, sir.”

“You saw the Morgue, of course, when you were in that direction,” remarked Mr. Malt.

“Why no,” poppa confessed, “we haven’t taken much of liking for live Frenchmen, up to the present, and I don’t suppose dead ones would be any more attractive.”