“Here she is!” Mrs. Gelbraith cried, unexpectedly, and a dark-haired, demure person entered the room wearing a look of gracious social expectancy. In years she was eleven, in manner about sixty-five, and evidently had lived much at court. She performed a curtsey in acknowledgment of Mrs. Schofield's greeting, and bestowed her hand upon Penrod, who had entertained no hope of such an honour, showed his surprise that it should come to him, and was plainly unable to decide what to do about it. “Fanchon, dear,” said Mrs. Gelbraith, “take Penrod out in the yard for a while, and play.” “Let go the little girl's hand, Penrod,” Mrs. Schofield laughed, as the children turned toward the door. Penrod hastily dropped the small hand, and exclaiming, with simple honesty, “Why, _I_ don't want it!” followed Fanchon out into the sunshiny yard, where they came to a halt and surveyed each other. Penrod stared awkwardly at Fanchon, no other occupation suggesting itself to him, while Fanchon, with the utmost coolness, made a very thorough visual examination of Penrod, favouring him with an estimating scrutiny which lasted until he literally wiggled. Finally, she spoke. “Where do you buy your ties?” she asked. “What?” “Where do you buy your neckties? Papa gets his at Skoone's. You ought to get yours there. I'm sure the one you're wearing isn't from Skoone's.” “Skoone's?” Penrod repeated. “Skoone's?” “On Fifth Avenue,” said Fanchon. “It's a very smart shop, the men say.” “Men?” echoed Penrod, in a hazy whisper. “Men?” “Where do your people go in summer?” inquired the lady. “WE go to Long Shore, but so many middle-class people have begun coming there, mamma thinks of leaving. The middle classes are simply awful, don't you think?” “What?” “They're so boorjaw. You speak French, of course?” “Me?” “We ran over to Paris last year. It's lovely, don't you think? Don't you LOVE the Rue de la Paix?” Penrod wandered in a labyrinth. This girl seemed to be talking, but her words were dumfounding, and of course there was no way for him to know that he was really listening to her mother. It was his first meeting with one of those grown-up little girls, wonderful product of the winter apartment and summer hotel; and Fanchon, an only child, was a star of the brand. He began to feel resentful. “I suppose,” she went on, “I'll find everything here fearfully Western. Some nice people called yesterday, though. Do you know the Magsworth Bittses? Auntie says they're charming. Will Roddy be at your party?” “I guess he will,” returned Penrod, finding this intelligible. “The mutt!” “Really!” Fanchon exclaimed airily. “Aren't you great pals with him?” “What's 'pals'?” “Good heavens! Don't you know what it means to say you're 'great pals' with any one? You ARE an odd child!” It was too much. “Oh, Bugs!” said Penrod. This bit of ruffianism had a curious effect. Fanchon looked upon him with sudden favour.