"About you he is," said Mrs. Légère; "and," she added, "I doo't blame him.--But look here"--she placed a crooked forefinger under the girl's chin and turned the blushing face upward--"look here, what a tired little woman it is!--Max, you're so careless, I'll bet you've never thought to give this poor child a drop of wine to strengthen her after all that traveling!" "I tried to get her to," said Max, "but she vouldn't take it." "What?" "I don't drink," explained Mary. "Of course you don't, but," Mrs. Légère elucidated, "taking a glass or two of wine after a railroad ride isn't drinking." "No-o," Mary granted; "but I don't care for it." "I hope not--only taken this way it's medicine. I don't blame you for not drinking in a restaurant with a bad boy like Max; but you need it now; you're all played out. This is as good as your home till to-morrow, you know. Just have a little with me; I'm old enough to be your mother, and we won't give Max a drop--just to punish him.--Cassie!" She had run through the speech with a rapidity that had left the girl no chance for reply, and now, before Mary could move her lips, she had, with amazing agility, leaped to a back door, opened it, called an order into the darkness beyond, and as quickly returned to her former position on the sofa. "It will be the best thing in the world for you," she said. "The doctor orders it for me, and so I always have it ready on ice." As she concluded speaking, the door through which she had called was reopened and there entered a tall, raw-boned, glum, colored girl, whose shining ebony skin was darkened by the white apron that she wore. She bore a tray on which was a gilt-topped bottle and two narrow glasses. "Put it there, Cassie," said Mrs. Légère, pointing to the table. The girl obeyed and left the room. Max seized the bottle, ripped off the gilding and, wrapping his purple-bordered handkerchief about the neck, with one dexterous twist, drew out the resounding cork. A living foam gushed from the neck as the self-appointed butler poured into the two glasses a pale gold fluid, which creamed angrily to their edges, and then subsided until first one addition and then another set them boiling again. Mrs. Légère took a glass in each hand and pressed the foremost into the passive palm of the girl. "Well," said she, in a phrase new to Mary, "here we are." Mary hesitated, the glass to her lips. She could hear the liquid whispering to her, and particles seemed to jump from it and sting her eyes. "What is it?" she asked. "Vine," said Max. "But what kind of wine?" she weakly delayed. "My dear," her entertainer informed her, "there is only one kind of wine in New York." "It's tchampagne," hissed Max, as if the name were something too sacred to be spoken in the tone of ordinary conversation. "Un' this kind costs eighd dollars a bottle."