unusual will power.  Yet it smiled readily, and when it did there was an agreeable vision of strong, healthy-looking teeth of dazzling whiteness.  She was a little over medium height and slender in figure, and carried herself with that unmistakable air of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth and culture.  She dressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of rich material, and of a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always so quietly attired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her one could never recall what she had on.

At the special request of Shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse of the Latin Quarter, the driver took a course down the Avenue de l’Opera, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the Opera and ends at the Theatre Francais, and which, like many others that go to the beautifying of the capital, the Parisians owe to the much-despised Napoleon III.  The cab, Jefferson told her, would skirt the Palais Royal and follow the Rue de Rivoli until it came to the Chatelet, when it would cross the Seine and drive up the Boulevard St. Michel—­the students’ boulevard—­until it reached the Luxembourg Gardens.  Like most of his kind, the cocker knew less than nothing of the art of driving, and he ran a reckless, zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way through a confusing maze of vehicles of every description, pulling first to the right, then to the left, for no good purpose that was apparent, and averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen bad collisions.  At times the fiacre lurched in such alarming fashion that Shirley was visibly perturbed, but when Jefferson assured her that all Paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing ever happened, she was comforted.

“Tell me,” he repeated, “what do the papers say about the book?”

“Say?” he echoed.  “Why, simply that you’ve written the biggest book of the year, that’s all!”

“Really!  Oh, do tell me all they said!” She was fairly excited now, and in her enthusiasm she grasped Jefferson’s broad, sunburnt hand which was lying outside the carriage rug.  He tried to appear unconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as he proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read that afternoon.

“Isn’t that splendid!” she exclaimed, when he had finished.  Then she added quickly: 

“I wonder if your father has seen it?”

Jefferson grinned.  He had something on his conscience, and this was a good opportunity to get rid of it.  He replied laconically: 

“He probably has read it by this time.  I sent him a copy myself.”

The instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for Shirley’s face had changed colour.

“You sent him a copy of ‘The American Octopus?’” she cried.  “Then he’ll guess who wrote the book.”

“Oh, no, he won’t,” rejoined Jefferson calmly.  “He has no idea who sent it to him.  I mailed it anonymously.”