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After the dinner Peter had a pleasant chat
with the Justice's seventeen-year-old daughter, who was just from a
Catholic convent, and the two tried to talk in French. It is wonderful
what rubbish is tolerable if only talked in a foreign tongue.
"I don't see what you wanted to have that Stirling for?" said Honorable
Mrs. Justice Gallagher, to him who conferred that proud title upon her,
after the guests had departed.
"You are clever, arn't you?" said Gallagher, bitingly.
"That's living with you," retorted the H.M.J., who was not easily put
down.
"Then you see that you treat Stirling as if he was somebody. He's
getting to be a power in the ward, and if you want to remain Mrs.
Justice Gallagher and spend eight thousand--and pickings--a year, you
see that you keep him friendly."
"Oh, I'll be friendly, but he's awful dull."
"Oh, no, mamma," said Monica. "He really isn't. He's read a great many
more French books than I have."
Peter lunched with the wholesale provision-dealer as planned.


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