“Yes, and she had a mother as well as this father of hers. Why shouldn’t she be like her mother?” I laughed. “That is true! I wonder why we always leave the mother out of the count when we sum up the hereditary tendencies? I suppose the mother is as much a parent as the father.” “Quite. And there is no reason why this girl shouldn’t have her mother’s nature.” “We don’t actually _know_ anything against her father’s nature yet,” I suggested; “but if her mother lived a starved and stunted life with him, it may account for that effect of disappointed greed which I fancied in her when I first saw her.” “I don’t call it greed in a young girl to want to see something of the world.” “What do you call it?” Kendricks and the girl were stopping at the gate of the pavilion, and looking round at us. “Ah, he’s got enough for one day! He’s going to leave her to us now.” When we came up he said, “I’m going to run off a moment; I’m going up to the book-store there,” and he pointed toward one that had spread across the sidewalk just below the Congress Hall verandah, with banks and shelves of novels, and a cry of bargains in them on signs sticking up from their rows. “I want to see if they have the _Last Days of Pompeii_.” “We will find the ladies inside the park,” I said. “I will go with you—” “Mr. March wants to see if they have the last number of _Every Other Week_,” my wife mocked after us. This was, indeed, commonly a foible of mine. I had newly become one of the owners of the periodical as well as the editor, and I was all the time looking out for it at the news-stands and book-stores, and judging their enterprise by its presence or absence. But this time I had another motive, though I did not allege it. “I suppose it’s for Miss Gage?” I ventured to say, by way of prefacing what I wished to say. “Kendricks, I’m afraid we’re abusing your good nature. I know you’re up here to look about, and you’re letting us use all your time. You mustn’t do it. Women have no conscience about these things, and you can’t expect a woman who has a young lady on her hands to spare you. I give you the hint. Don’t count upon Mrs. March in this matter.” “Oh, I think you are very good to allow me to bother round,” said the young fellow, with that indefatigable politeness of his. He added vaguely, “It’s very interesting.” “Seeing it through such a fresh mind?” I suggested. “Well, I’ll own that I don’t think you could have found a much fresher one. Has she read the _Last Days of Pompeii_?” “She thought she had at first, but it was the _Fall of Granada_.” “How delightful! Don’t you wish we could read books with that utterly unliterary sense of them?” “Don’t you think women generally do?” he asked evasively. “I daresay they do at De Witt Point.”