“I was told by your father,” I explained, “that you were engaged in sacred rites.” If Miss Ruck was less conciliatory it would be scarcely, I felt sure, because she had been more frugal. It was rather because her conception of social intercourse appeared to consist of the imputation to as many persons as possible—that is to as many subject males—of some scandalous neglect of her charms and her claims. “Well, for a gentleman there’s nothing so sacred as ladies’ society,” she replied in the manner of a person accustomed to giving neat retorts. “I suppose you refer to the cathedral,” said her mother. “Well, I must say we didn’t go back there. I don’t know what it may be for regular attendants, but it doesn’t meet my idea of a really pleasant place of worship. Few of these old buildings do,” Mrs. Ruck further mentioned. “Well, we discovered a little lace-shop, where I guess I could regularly attend!” her daughter took occasion to announce without weak delay. Mr. Ruck looked at his child; then he turned about again, leaning on the parapet and gazing away at the “hills.” “Well, the place was certainly not expensive,” his wife said with her eyes also on the Alps. “We’re going up to Chamouni,” he pursued. “You haven’t any call for lace up there.” “Well, I’m glad to hear you’ve decided to go somewhere,” Mrs. Ruck returned. “I don’t want to be a fixture at an old pension.” “You can wear lace anywhere,” her daughter reminded us, “if you put it on right. That’s the great thing with lace. I don’t think they know how to wear lace in Europe. I know how I mean to wear mine; but I mean to keep it till I get home.” Mr. Ruck transferred his melancholy gaze to her elaborately-appointed little person; there was a great deal of very new-looking detail in Miss Ruck’s appearance. Then in a tone of voice quite out of consonance with his facial despondency, “Have you purchased a great deal?” he inquired. “I’ve purchased enough for you to make a fuss about.” “He can’t make a fuss about _that_,” said Mrs. Ruck. “Well, you’ll see!”—the girl had unshaken confidence. The subject of this serenity, however, went on in the same tone: “Have you got it in your pocket? Why don’t you put it on—why don’t you hang it round you?” “I’ll hang it round _you_ if you don’t look out!” cried Miss Ruck. “Don’t you want to show it off to this gentleman?” he sociably continued. “Mercy, how you do carry on!” his wife sighed. “Well, I want to be lively. There’s every reason for it. We’re going up to Chamouni.” “You’re real restless—that’s what’s the matter with you.” And Mrs. Ruck roused herself from her own repose. “No, I ain’t,” said her husband. “I never felt so quiet. I feel as peaceful as a little child.” Mrs. Ruck, who had no play of mind, looked at her daughter and at me. “Well, I hope you’ll improve,” she stated with a certain flatness.