"You are quite right." "Algy, and the Brat, and--what is the other fellow's name ?--Dicky ?--Jacky ?--Jemmy?
--" "Bobby," say I, correcting him.

"But you are not quite right; the Brat will not be there!--worse luck--he is in Paris!" "Well, Barbara will not be in Paris," says the young man, still in the same discontented, pettish voice.

"_She_ will be there, no doubt--well to the front--in the thickest of the osculations." "_That_ she will!" cry I, heartily.

"But you must give up calling her Barbara; that is not at all pretty manners." "We will make a bargain," he says, beginning to smile a little, but rather as if it were against his will and intention.

"I will allow her to call me 'Frank,' if she will allow me to call her 'Barbara.'" "I dare say you will" (laughing).
A little pause.