There was a general laugh, as the groups divided and seated themselves. Mr. Randolph did not exert, during the meal, all those conversational powers for which he was so justly celebrated. Perhaps he was tired, after three hours of statistics; for he had gone very thoroughly, as he had promised, into the “workings” of “Prices;” and his note-book contained neat rows of figures and cabalistic signs furnished him by the heads of departments. “Perhaps I may bring you home some ideas from abroad,” he had said, genuinely surprised to find that the promise was not received with enthusiasm. In fact, Frau Anna Rolf, the head of the clothing department, which included dressmaking, tailors’, and milliners’ shops, had replied somewhat curtly that there were ideas in plenty at “Prices.” What they needed was means to carry them out, and room to grow. “Why, how much more room do you want?” Pinkie had asked rather pettishly. “I never saw such a big place as this.” “America is a bigger place,” Frau Anna had answered, with her solemn, gloomy eyes burning upon the girl’s young face; “America is bigger, and so is the world.” Then Mr. Randolph had pressed her shoulder significantly, and Pinkie had said no more. From the point of view of a party of pleasure, Pinkie’s day had not been a success. She had been shocked and disgusted, frightened, and, always and above all, thoroughly and intensely bored. The number of barrels of flour consumed a week, the sale for jewelry, above all, the prices of leather and the demand for shoes,—what was all this to Pinkie, aged sixteen, and on the verge of a trip to Paris, but a weariness of the flesh? “Prices” had presented its least attractive face to the little heiress, that morning, not, perhaps, without the knowledge and consent of her wise papa. But at dinner Mr. Randolph indulged himself in a well-earned silence. The humors of the dining-hall could, he felt, be safely left to the conduct of Miss Dare, whose pale, prominent eyes seemed everywhere at once, while the low-toned sarcasms flowed on as unceasingly as Tennyson’s “Brook.” “Girls, girls! don’t laugh at these good people! They will see you, and feel hurt,” interposed at gentle intervals the Machiavelli of rough-running love-affairs. Pinkie was not anxious about the feelings of “these good people.” Louis was sitting not a dozen feet from her, beside a sweet, gentle-faced girl, who seemed to absorb more of his attention than his dinner. Moreover, his color was unusually bright, which gave him a very cheerful and animated appearance; and Pinkie felt that if any one at “Prices” had any feelings at all, it would be a satisfaction to wound them as deeply as possible. Meanwhile there were eyes to see and hearts to remember at every table around, and many an ill seed, to bear fruit an hundred-fold thereafter, was sown amid girlish laughter, during that short half-hour.