The Princess set her lips in a long thin line, which was unbecoming to her, and there was a long pause during which Mr. Brett rustled systematically, and Hermione was conscious of the afflicting sound in every nerve of her body. An unwonted flush came over her countenance, she drew her cushions a little higher with a jerk, and opened her eyes. “If you wish to speak to me, Papa,” she said with dignity, “I should not dream of refusing to listen to you, however much pain it costs me.” Mr. Brett laid down “The Times” with satisfaction. “That’s the way I like to hear you talk, Hermione,” he observed cheerfully, “because that’s exactly what I’ve come up here to do. I’ve come up here to make things painful for you.” Hermione raised incredulous and exasperating eyebrows, but she made no comment on her father’s preposterous project. “When I was a young man,” Mr. Brett continued in his slow unemotional drawl, “I made quite a study of mules. I had to drive ’em, and if you have to drive a mule you want to study it. “Now the doggonest thing a mule can do to a human being is to baulk. You can light out from a kicking mule and you can drag a rearing mule down, but if a mule baulks, you want to revise the Catechism and put in a special clause to permit swearing. But I got wise to the mule’s temperament after a bit. I used to give ’em something they liked just out of reach of their noses—say carrots—and if that didn’t do, I put something behind them so unpleasant that it kinder induced them to prance forward unexpectedly in the direction I was wanting them to go. When I say unexpectedly, I mean unexpectedly to the mules. “Can you think of anything you would like to have, Hermione?” “Dear Papa,” said his daughter sweetly, “I have lived so long abroad that I hardly understand your quaint way of putting things. I am sure you mean to be funny, but American humour escapes me.” Mr. Brett did not smile but his eyes lighted appreciatively. “You don’t lose anything, Hermione,” he said gently. “I guess you have quite a wit of your own. “Don’t you think it’s time you went back to Paris? There hasn’t been an air raid for some while.” Hermione’s flush deepened. “I don’t expect you to understand me,” she said pathetically. “You never have, but I feel that my first duty is to Elise. I left Paris to come to her, not to escape air raids.” “If you want a house on the Champs Elysées,” said Mr. Brett meditatively, “with a garden—say the word. I happen to know that I could procure one by wire.” “I should have thought you were clever enough not to offer me a bribe,” said Hermione coldly. She had always wanted a house in the Champs Elysées big enough for entertaining on a large scale. “I should refuse a palace rather than neglect a duty.” Mr. Brett pushed his chair back until the front legs of it waved dangerously in the air.