Mrs.Luce had been living in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe; she used to say jocosely that she was one of the generation of 1830--a joke of which the point was not always taken.

When it failed Mrs.Luce used to explain--"Oh yes, I'm one of the romantics;" her French had never become quite perfect.

She was always at home on Sunday afternoons and surrounded by sympathetic compatriots, usually the same.

In fact she was at home at all times, and reproduced with wondrous truth in her well-cushioned little corner of the brilliant city, the domestic tone of her native Baltimore.

This reduced Mr.Luce, her worthy husband, a tall, lean, grizzled, well-brushed gentleman who wore a gold eye-glass and carried his hat a little too much on the back of his head, to mere platonic praise of the "distractions" of Paris--they were his great word--since you would never have guessed from what cares he escaped to them.