GeneralTriscoewokeinthebadhumorofanelderlymanafteraday’spleasure，andintheself-reproachofapessimistwhohaslosthispointofviewforatime，andhastoworkbacktoit。Hebeganatthebelatedbreakfastwithhisdaughterwhenshesaid，afterkissinghimgayly，inthesmalltwo-seatedbowerwheretheybreakfastedattheirhotelwhentheydidnotgotothePosthof，“Didn’tyouhaveanicetime，yesterday，papa？”
Shesankintothechairopposite，andbeamedathimacrossthelittleirontable，assheliftedthepottopourouthiscoffee。
“Whatdoyoucallanicetime？”hetemporized，notquiteabletoresisthergayety。
“Well，thekindoftimeIhad。”
“Didyougetrheumatismfromsittingonthegrass？Itookcoldinthatoldchurch，andtheteaatthatrestaurantmusthavebeenbrewedinabrasskettle。Isufferedallnightfromit。AndthatassfromIllinois——“