“I take my hat off to Uncle Henry,” he said, again addressing Helen Maynard, who was seated beside him. “He can see more out of the back of his head than I can with my eyes.” “I will order for us both,” said Mrs. Nixon to Rosalie; and forthwith proceeded to do so with an air which forbade levity. When Rosalie had received her orders and hastened from the room, Robert again unburdened himself. “If I could get at that rubber ear of Uncle Henry’s,” he remarked to his demure neighbor, “I’d tell him he was a sad dog. A very good thing he brought me on this trip.” “Mr. Derwent’s eyes mean more to him than ours do to us, naturally,” returned Helen. “And I tell you,” returned Robert devoutly, “anybody endears himself to Uncle Henry who brings his coffee just right. That blonde must have done it this morning. How,” turning to his mother, “does my mother enjoy democratic traveling? This girl is a peach; but you should see the other one that was with her this morning in the coach. Did you?” “No,” returned Mrs. Nixon coldly. “Why should I trouble myself about my neighbors? I came to see the scenery.” “Well,” Robert shrugged his shoulders, “all is, you’ve missed a chance to see how a perfect lady should behave. Her gum-manners were a dream; but cheer up! You’ll have a chance this afternoon, doubtless.” Here Rosalie brought the soup. Helen Maynard looked up at her and received a strange impression of familiarity. “She looks like some one,” she said softly. “Who is it?” “I know,” responded Robert promptly, “Hebe.” “I haven’t met her yet,” returned Helen. “I’m climbing the mount of Olympus by slow and easy stages.” “Now if you mean anything about _me_,” returned Robert briskly, “speak right out. I can’t cope with clever people. If you’re clever, I’m done for.” “Oh!” ejaculated Helen softly. “Lambeth!” “Is that any relative to shibboleth?” effervesced Robert. “Because I can say it. See? Better let me in.” “Lambeth is a school,” returned Helen, and stole another look at their busy waitress; “a school where I went.” Irving Bruce had Betsy on his right hand, but Mrs. Bruce absorbed him; and Betsy sat looking before her, idly waiting for her meal. Her roving glance fell suddenly on Rosalie’s blond head as the girl was leaving the dining-room. “Why, that looked like Rosalie Vincent,” she reflected; then thought no more of it until later, when, her eyes again roving to that table, she obtained a full view of the fair-haired waitress as the girl refilled Mr. Derwent’s glass.