"I don't know," said her father, dubiously. "I scarcely believe I'm so fascinating as all that. But I just wanted to remind you, girls, that there's plenty of nice boys at home--boys whom you can trust, through and through--boys who are clean, and honest, and worth loving. If you _must_ lose your hearts--and I suppose it's inevitable, some day--please do me the favour of choosing two of them. I'll sleep better at night and breathe easier by day!" CHAPTER II The Rôle of Good Angel Rushford waved them good-bye from the door as they sallied forth into the bright sunlight, paused a moment to look after them admiringly, and then turned slowly back into the hotel, smiling softly to himself. He sauntered through the deserted vestibule, and its emptiness struck him as it had never done before. "Really," he said to himself, "we seem to be the only patrons the house has got. I'll have to look over my bill." He went on to the desk and demanded his letters of the boy in resplendent uniform who presided there. "There are none, monsieur," answered that individual, blandly. "What!" cried Rushford, his smile vanished in an instant. "Are you sure?" The boy answered with a shrug and a significant gesture toward the letter-rack on the wall. It was visibly, incontestably empty. Rushford turned away in disgust. "Those fellows at the office are assuming altogether too much responsibility," he muttered savagely, as he wandered on into the smoking-room. "I told them I didn't want to be bothered with little things, but I certainly expected to hear from them once in a while. If I don't look out, they'll reduce me to the status of a rubber stamp! I'll have to stir them up," and he gloomily extracted from the rack the newly-arrived, two-days-old London paper, brought by the little rickety train which struggled through at uncertain and infrequent intervals from Zunderburg to Weet-sur-Mer, lighted a fresh cigar, and sat down to a perusal of the news. He proceeded in the most leisurely manner, for he knew that he had plenty of time. Indeed, the paper once finished, the remainder of the day would stretch before him an empty wilderness--a waste as monotonous and bare as the beach he had grown so weary of gazing at. So he gave careful and minute attention to every item. He was in the midst of a long and wholly uninteresting account of a charity bazaar, which the Princess of Wales had opened, and where the Duchess of Blank-Blank had made a tremendous hit and much money for a worthy cause, by selling her kisses for a guinea each, when his attention was attracted by a discreet shuffling of feet on the floor beside his chair. He looked up to see standing there the little fat Alsatian-German-French proprietor of the hotel. "Why, hello, Pelletan," he said. "Want to speak to me?" "Eef monsieur please," and Pelletan rubbed his chubby hands together in visible embarrassment. "All right; sit down."