Mr. Brock was a soft-spoken and scholarly old man who, although he had come from New York, called himself “a professional Bostonian.” He was the victim of a delusion which he propounded, whenever he had the opportunity, to myself, my mother, the Mexican gardener, Gonzales, to Mr. Hagethorn, to the waitresses. He believed that of all languages, only the English was capable of vulgarity, and he claimed that bad American books were transformed by translation into promising, if not brilliant, prose. He had made a collection of such translations, having E. P. Roe, for example, rendered into French and the Elsie Dinsmore books into Spanish. He had given my father his copy of Riders of the Purple Sage and my father, although he was totally indifferent to Mr. Brock’s thesis, so thoroughly enjoyed the book for its adventure that the old man danced for joy, sure that this was the proof of the pudding.

Now he produced a leather-bound book from his brief-case and handing it to Miss Pride, said, “I sought you out to show you my latest find. This is Bob, Son of Battle in German or Old Bob, der graue hund von Kenmuir and it is enchanting. Would you care to read it?”

“No, Mr. Brock, I would not,” said Miss Pride sternly. “I do not share your enthusiasm for foreign languages. And as for dog-books I had no use for them in my girlhood and feel quite sure I would find them even less to my taste now that I have passed beyond the age for juvenile literature.”

He was not rebuffed. “I admire your linguistic singleness, Miss Pride, since in you I am sure it is the result of strong nationalistic convictions. Alas, we are not all by opinion or antecedents eligible for membership in the English Speaking Union.”

“I am not a member of the English Speaking Union,” she returned. “But in any case your remark is, to use a foreign phrase, a non sequitur.”

Mr. Brock, receiving the book which she extended, allowed his disappointment to show briefly in his foolish old face and then, catching sight of me, he cried, “Now here is someone whose father will appreciate the book.” In a voice a little lower but not intended to be inaudible to me, he added, “Did you realize that this child’s father is an educated man?”

“I believe I haven’t had the pleasure of knowing him.” Miss Pride took me in, perhaps for the first time since I had been coming to the Hotel, and I felt that in her rapid but comprehensive examination of my face and person she had discerned everything about me, that she knew I had once broken my collarbone, that I did poorly in arithmetic and singing and well in reading, and that brushing my teeth had not yet become habitual with me.