And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. By this time, several of the terrified domestics appeared with lights. Jack had thus been six hours in accomplishing his arduous task. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found.
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