Mr.Dod had come into his patrimony and simultaneously disappeared in the direction of Europe six months before, since when we had only heard vaguely that he had lost most of it, but was inalterably cheerful; and there was nobody, apparently, he expected so little or desired so much to see in Paris as the Senator, momma and me.

Poppa called him "Dick, my boy," momma called him "my dear Dicky," I called him plain "Dick," and when this had been going on for, possibly, five minutes, the older and larger of the two ladies of the party swung round with a majesty I at once associated with my earlier London experiences, and regarded us through her _pince nez_.
There was no mistaking her disapproval.

I had seen it before.

We were Americans and she was Mrs.Portheris of Half Moon-street, Piccadilly.

I saw that she recognised me and was trying to make up her mind whether, in view of the complication of Mr.Dod, to bow or not.