“She has had _you_, madam,” I pronounced finely. “Certainly, such as I am, I’ve been devoted. We’ve got something everywhere; a little here, a little there. That’s the real secret—to get something everywhere; you always can if you _are_ devoted. Sometimes it has been a little music, sometimes a little deeper insight into the history of art; sometimes into that of literature, politics, economics: every little counts, you know. Sometimes it has been just a glimpse, a view, a lovely landscape, a mere impression. We’ve always been on the look-out. Sometimes it has been a valued friendship, a delightful social tie.” “Here comes the ‘European society,’ the poor daughter’s bugbear,” I said to myself. “Certainly,” I remarked aloud—I admit rather hypocritically—“if you’ve lived a great deal in pensions you must have got acquainted with lots of people.” Mrs. Church dropped her eyes an instant; taking it up, however, as one for whom discrimination was always at hand. “I think the European pension system in many respects remarkable and in some satisfactory. But of the friendships that we’ve formed few have been contracted in establishments of this stamp.” “I’m sorry to hear that!” I ruefully laughed. “I don’t say it for you, though I might say it for some others. We’ve been interested in European _homes_.” “Ah there you’re beyond me!” “Naturally”—she quietly assented. “We have the entrée of the old Genevese society. I like its tone. I prefer it to that of Mr. Ruck,” added Mrs. Church calmly; “to that of Mrs. Ruck and Miss Ruck. To that of Miss Ruck in particular.” “Ah the poor Rucks _have_ no tone,” I pleaded. “That’s just the point of them. Don’t take them more seriously than they take themselves.” Well, she would see what she could do. But she bent grave eyes on me. “Are they really fair examples?” “Examples of what?” “Of our American tendencies.” “‘Tendencies’ is a big word, dear lady; tendencies are difficult to calculate.” I used even a greater freedom. “And you shouldn’t abuse those good Rucks, who have been so kind to your daughter. They’ve invited her to come and stay with them in Thirty-Seventh Street near Fourth Avenue.” “Aurora has told me. It might be very serious.” “It might be very droll,” I said. “To me,” she declared, “it’s all too terrible. I think we shall have to leave the Pension Beaurepas. I shall go back to Madame Chamousset.” “On account of the Rucks?” I asked. “Pray why don’t they go themselves? I’ve given them some excellent addresses—written down the very hours of the trains. They were going to Appenzell; I thought it was arranged.” “They talk of Chamouni now,” I said; “but they’re very helpless and undecided.” “I’ll give them some Chamouni addresses. Mrs. Ruck will send for a _chaise à porteurs_; I’ll give her the name of a man who lets them lower than you get them at the hotels. After that they _must_ go.”