“I know Mr. Potter is at the bottom of it.” (Frances was not alluding to the trunk before which she knelt.) “He’s always doing mean things, yet he never will acknowledge them. He won’t even pay me the respect of denying them.” Frances slapped a shawl she was packing, viciously. “To think of having to travel with him! He won’t even look at me. No. He doesn’t even pay me the compliment of looking at me. I don’t believe he’s even noticed my eyes and eyelashes.” Frances gazed into a hand-glass she was about to place in the trunk, and seemed less cross for a moment after the scrutiny. “He’s just as snubby as he can be. I hate snubby people, and I’ll be just as snubby to him as I know how. I’ll—” “Good afternoon, Frances,” interrupted a voice, which made that young lady nearly jump into the trunk she was bending over. “I came up to see if I could do anything for you or your mother, and she sent me in to ask you.” Frances was rather flushed, but that may have been due to the stooping position. “I don’t think of anything,” she answered. “I’ve had some chairs sent on board, and laid in novels and smoked glasses and puzzles; and oysters, and game, and fruit, and butter,” said Champney, with a suggestion of weariness, “and I don’t think of anything else. If you can suggest something more, I’ll get it.” “I don’t know— Yes. You might change your mind and let us stay at home,” snapped Frances. “Don’t blame me for that,” laughed Champney. “That’s your father’s doings.” “I know you were at the bottom of it,” charged Frances. “My dear child—” began Champney. “I’m not _your_ child, and I’m not _a_ child, and I won’t be deared by you,” cried Frances. “Madame Antiquity,” responded Champney, bowing, “I assure you, that far from wishing to force you to go on this trip with me, I only agreed to take you, at your father’s request, and at a great personal sacrifice to myself.” Frances turned, and banged down the lid of her trunk. Then she banged it again, to get the hasp to fit. Then she picked up a pair of discarded boots and threw them across the room, hitting Freddy, who entered at that moment. “Why, sweetness!” gasped Freddy, who did not see Champney. “Oh, go away,” cried Frances, blushing. “Don’t bother me! Can’t you see I’m too busy to waste time now?” And to illustrate the callousness of man to true love, it is regrettable to state that Champney slipped out of the door at this point, with an expression of great muscular tension about his mouth, and no sooner was he in the hall than the brute reeled up against the wall and, leaning there, laughed to a sinful degree.