“Quite thoroughly,” she replied briefly. “We went the regular round,” said Mrs. Nixon. “Your uncle was really bewitched with everything.” Mr. Derwent, his hands crossed upon the head of the stick he carried, sat in the isolation of the deaf; his eyes fastened upon the delicate and wonderful coloring of the stationary cascades of deposit, over which the water was trickling; building—ever building greater beauty with its puny persistence. He caught his nephew’s eye with a good-humored twinkle. “Great example of what industry will do,” he remarked. “Fierce!” replied Robert, and made an energetic dive for the rubber disk, which his uncle foiled by a quick move. The youth fixed Mr. Derwent with his gaze, and moved his lips with care to be distinct. “I’ve always refused,” he declared loudly, “to have the busy bee or the coral insect thrown at me; and I now add the Yellowstone water to the black list.” “If words,” replied Mr. Derwent, “could build anything, you would rear temples of amazing height, Robert.” “And rare beauty,” added the youth. “Don’t forget that, please.” Miss Hickey changed her gum to the other side of her mouth. “Ain’t he fresh?” she murmured to her companion. “Did you see the look I gave him when he come up to the stage? I tell you I wasn’t goin’ to have him crowdin’ in here with us.” “I waited on them at breakfast,” murmured Rosalie. “He’s just jolly all the time.” Miss Hickey bridled. “Well, he wouldn’t jolly me more’n once. I know his kind: awful fresh;” and the gum gave a vault and turn which only the most experienced can accomplish. “And they’re all friends!” murmured Rosalie apprehensively. “Oh, brace up!” returned Miss Hickey impatiently. “If you haven’t stolen their spoons I don’t see what you’re so scared of; and you’re too much of a baby to have done that.” “No, I never—never lived out anywhere,” breathed Rosalie. “Well, if you think it’s such a disgrace to be a waitress in the Park, what did you come for?” As Miss Hickey scented offense, her tone began to rise, and Rosalie grasped her arm pacifically. “No, no, it isn’t that! It isn’t in the least that!” The girl’s conscience squirmed a little as she made this reply, and she swallowed and went on. “It’s a long story, too long to tell, and not interesting; but oh, Miss Hickey, do try to wait on the Bruces this noon, won’t you, like a dear good girl!” “’Twon’t be up to me; but I’d be mighty glad to do it, you bet! Did you hear that fresh chap call him Bruty? _Bruty!_ That prince! Well, I’ve got a name for _him_ all right. Did you ever study about them heathen gods? I did. I’ve got an awful good education if I do say it; and there was one of ’em so ugly if he walked by a clock it would stop. His name was—let’s see; it was Calabash. Well, it just fits that feller to a T. If I looked like that, I’d go way back and sit down instead of fillin’ the stage so’t nobody can look at anybody but him.”