She tossed her head as at a challenge to a romp. “Well, I don’t believe
you’ve any taste.”
“Why, sir, it’s just too lovely,” said her mother.
“You’ll see it some day _on_ me, anyway,” piped Miss Ruck.
“Not very much,” said Mr. Ruck quietly.
“It will be his own fault, then,” Miss Sophy returned.
“Well, if we’re going up to Chamouni we want to get something here,” said
Mrs. Ruck. “We mayn’t have another chance.”
Her husband still turned his eyes over the shop, whistling half under his
breath. “We ain’t going up to Chamouni. We’re going back to New York
City straight.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she made answer. “Don’t you suppose we
want to take something home?”
“If we’re going straight back I must have that bracelet,” her daughter
declared. “Only I don’t want a velvet case; I want a satin case.”
“I must bid you good-bye,” I observed all irrelevantly to the ladies.
“I’m leaving Geneva in an hour or two.”
“Take a good look at that bracelet, so you’ll know it when you see it,”
was hereupon Miss Sophy’s form of farewell to me.
“She’s bound to have something!” her mother almost proudly attested.
Mr. Ruck still vaguely examined the shop; he still just audibly whistled.
“I’m afraid he’s not at all well,” I took occasion to intimate to his
wife.
She twisted her head a little and glanced at him; she had a brief but
pregnant pause. “Well, I must say I wish he’d improve!”
“A satin case, and a nice one!” cried Miss Ruck to the shopman.
I bade her other parent good-bye. “Don’t wait for me,” he said, sitting
there on his stool and not meeting my eye. “I’ve got to see this thing
through.”
I went back to the Pension Beaurepas, and when an hour later I left it
with my luggage these interesting friends had not returned.