me exactly how much money I have in the bank, including what Uncle Mornay-Mareuil left me?"
Dr. Bruneau opened his eyes, made a bewildered grimace, went to a desk in the corner, and rummaged for a bank-book. "Including interest to date," he gravely replied, "eleven thousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and thirty-three cents."
He came to his own chair opposite her, picking up the pipe which she had filled for him. "What's in that black little head?"
"Many things. More, really, than I know,—or, at least, than I knew."
"Nothing wrong?"
". . . I even wonder if there is anything right."
He was at once reassured. "You've been with Katie Salter. How is she?"
"She's bearing it. Papa, penses-tu, I delivered the funeral oration."
"B'en vrai, tu en as! . . . What did you say?"
"I talked over their heads, and a little over my own, as though I were under a spell. I thought I was going to say something religious; but it was scarcely that. It was rather like what the cook scrapes together when people turn up for dinner unexpectedly,—philosophical pot-luck. Everybody seemed puzzled, but I wasn't just inventing words, as I used to do when addressing my paper dolls. The words seemed to make sense in spite of me. . . . And I had a strange feeling, afterwards, of having grown up all at once. I don't think I'll ever
