The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. Mr. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. “Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father says!” Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. Wood thought them both remarkably plain, but Mr.
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