“Humph! Well, IF he has, then--Hosy, sometimes I think this, all this pilgrimage of ours--that's what you used to call it, a pilgrimage--is goin' to turn out right, after all. Don't it remind you of a book, this last part of it?” “A dismal sort of book,” I said, gloomily. “Well, I don't know. Here are you, the hero, and here's she, the heroine. And the hero is sick and the heroine comes to take care of him--she WAS takin' care of you afore I came, you know; and she falls in love with him and--” “Yes,” I observed, sarcastically. “She always does--in books. But in those books the hero is not a middle-aged quahaug. Suppose we stick to real life and possibilities, Hephzy.” Hephzy was unconvinced. “I don't care,” she said. “She ought to even if she doesn't. _I_ fell in love with you long ago, Hosy. And she DID bring you here after you were hurt and took care of you.” “Hush! hush!” I broke in. “She took care of me, as you call it, because she thought it was her duty. She thinks she is under great obligation to us because we did not pitch her into the street when we first met her. She insists that she owes us money and gratitude. Her kindness to me and her care are part payment of the debt. She told me so, herself.” “But--” “There aren't any 'buts.' You mustn't be an idiot because I have been one, Hephzy. We agreed not to speak of that again. Don't remind me of it.” Hephzy sighed. “All right,” she said. “I suppose you are right, Hosy. But--but how is all this goin' to end? She won't go with us. Are we goin' to leave her here alone?” I was silent. The same question was in my mind, but I had answered it. I was NOT going to leave her there alone. And yet-- “If I was sure,” mused Hephzy, “that she was in love with Herbert Bayliss, then 'twould be all right, I suppose. They would get married and it would be all right--or near right--wouldn't it, Hosy.” I said nothing. The next morning I saw her. She came to inquire for me and Hephzy brought her into my room for a stay of a minute or two. She seemed glad to find me so much improved in health and well on the road to recovery. I tried to thank her for her care of me, for her sending for Hephzy and all the rest of it, but she would not listen. She chatted about Paris and the French people, about Monsieur Louis, the concierge, and joked with Hephzy about that gentleman's admiration for “the wonderful American lady,” meaning Hephzy herself. “He calls you 'Madame Cay-hoo-on,'” she said, “and he thinks you a miracle of decision and management. I think he is almost afraid of you, I really do.”