The Reverberator | Page 5

adequately marked as "young commercial American." Let me add that
among the accidents of his appearance was that of its sometimes
striking other young commercial Americans as fine. He was
twenty-seven years old and had a small square head, a light grey
overcoat and in his right forefinger a curious natural crook which might
have availed, under pressure, to identify him. But for the convenience
of society he ought always to have worn something conspicuous--a

green hat or a yellow necktie. His undertaking was to obtain material in
Europe for an American "society-paper."
If it be objected to all this that when Francie Dosson at last came in she
addressed him as if she easily placed him, the answer is that she had
been notified by her father--and more punctually than was indicated by
the manner of her response. "Well, the way you DO turn up," she said,
smiling and holding out her left hand to him: in the other hand, or the
hollow of her slim right arm, she had a lumpish parcel. Though she had
made him wait she was clearly very glad to see him there; and she as
evidently required and enjoyed a great deal of that sort of indulgence.
Her sister's attitude would have told you so even if her own appearance
had not. There was that in her manner to the young man--a perceptible
but indefinable shade--which seemed to legitimate the oddity of his
having asked in particular for her, asked as if he wished to see her to
the exclusion of her father and sister: the note of a special pleasure
which might have implied a special relation. And yet a spectator
looking from Mr. George Flack to Miss Francie Dosson would have
been much at a loss to guess what special relation could exist between
them. The girl was exceedingly, extraordinarily pretty, all exempt from
traceable likeness to her sister; and there was a brightness in her--a still
and scattered radiance--which was quite distinct from what is called
animation. Rather tall than short, fine slender erect, with an airy
lightness of hand and foot, she yet gave no impression of quick
movement, of abundant chatter, of excitable nerves and irrepressible
life--no hint of arriving at her typical American grace in the most usual
way. She was pretty without emphasis and as might almost have been
said without point, and your fancy that a little stiffness would have
improved her was at once qualified by the question of what her softness
would have made of it. There was nothing in her, however, to confirm
the implication that she had rushed about the deck of a Cunarder with a
newspaper-man. She was as straight as a wand and as true as a gem; her
neck was long and her grey eyes had colour; and from the ripple of her
dark brown hair to the curve of her unaffirmative chin every line in her
face was happy and pure. She had a weak pipe of a voice and
inconceivabilities of ignorance.
Delia got up, and they came out of the little reading-room--this young
lady remarking to her sister that she hoped she had brought down all

the things. "Well, I had a fiendish hunt for them--we've got so many,"
Francie replied with a strange want of articulation. "There were a few
dozens of the pocket-handkerchiefs I couldn't find; but I guess I've got
most of them and most of the gloves."
"Well, what are you carting them about for?" George Flack enquired,
taking the parcel from her. "You had better let me handle them. Do you
buy pocket-handkerchiefs by the hundred?"
"Well, it only makes fifty apiece," Francie yieldingly smiled. "They
ain't really nice--we're going to change them."
"Oh I won't be mixed up with that--you can't work that game on these
Frenchmen!" the young man stated.
"Oh with Francie they'll take anything back," Delia Dosson declared.
"They just love her, all over."
"Well, they're like me then," said Mr. Flack with friendly cheer. "I'LL
take her back if she'll come."
"Well, I don't think I'm ready quite yet," the girl replied. "But I hope
very much we shall cross with you again."
"Talk about crossing--it's on these boulevards we want a life-
preserver!" Delia loudly commented. They had passed out of the hotel
and the wide vista of the Rue de la Paix stretched up and down. There
were many vehicles.
"Won't this thing do? I'll tie it to either of you," George Flack said,
holding out his bundle. "I suppose they won't kill you if they love you,"
he went on to the object of his preference.
"Well, you've got to know me first," she answered, laughing and
looking for a chance, while they waited to pass over.
"I didn't know you when I was