Randolph had resumed his seat beside his companion, and plied the fan for her, while she managed the parasol, so as to make a small tent, from under which they could scan their neighbours while greatly sheltered themselves. There was a tap on Randolph's shoulder, accompanied by "Pairmit me, sair." Randolph looked round. "Mr. Rouget! Good morning, sir. I did not think we should have had the happiness to see you here--believed you were in New York. When did you arrive in Montreal?" His hand was held out while he spoke, expectant of being shaken, but it remained untouched. This might have been an oversight, though Mr. Rouget was scrupulously particular in such matters, as a rule; but on the present occasion he seemed resolved there should be no mistake. The extended hand not having been withdrawn when the speaker ceased, he drew himself up to the top notch of his stature--it was French stature, and not excessive--placing his hands behind his back with a look of lowering majesty and indignation, which made him as overhanging and colossal, if also as stagy, as was possible. "Sair! Pairmit me to pass you." Randolph drew half a step aside, and backward; it was all he could do, owing to his companion's close proximity. "I vish to speak to mademoiselle, my daughtaire." "Adéline is here, sir;" showing with his left hand how the parent might place himself on her other side. "Mademoiselle Rouget vill dispense vit your presence, sair," with severe dignity; and he stepped, not as ushered by Randolph's left hand, but in the direction of his right, the consequence being that his foot caught between the legs of Randolph's chair, and he found himself prostrated on the turf. "_Mon Dieu!_" cried Adéline, rising and taking refuge with one of her friends, a few chairs off, under the impression that a brawl in public was imminent, and screening herself from all share in it with her parasol, while she continued to watch the scene through the fringes. "_Sac-r-r-ré_," growled the father, passing from dignity into fury. Dignity cannot possibly survive a trip up with a chair leg, and there is no refuge from the ridicule of the thing but in anger. "You vould dare knock me down? _Coquin!_" as he regained his feet, grasping his cane, and gnawing his white moustache between his teeth. "Pardon me, Mr. Rouget," said Professor Hammerstone, coming forward and dusting a blade of grass with his handkerchief from the angry gentleman's sleeve. "I hope you have not hurt yourself. I was standing by, and you must forgive my saying that our young friend here is really not to blame for this little accident. It is all the fault of those foolish chairs. I have bruised my own shins with them. The club would have done better to provide benches. Jordan is as innocent of the _contretemps_ as I am."