“Not at all: Lady Mirepoix or Lady Egmont—or—it does not matter if the butter and the bread are fresh.”
The good-humored way in which he spoke disarmed the philosopher who besides had his appetite whetted by the early stroll. Jussieu led the march, Rousseau followed, gleaning, and Gilbert guarded the rear, thinking of Andrea and how to see her at Trianon Palace.
At the top of the hill, rather painfully climbed by the three botanists, rose one of those imitation rustic cottages invented by the gardeners of England and giving a stamp of originality to the scene. The walls were of brick and the shelly stone found naturally in mosaic patterns on the riverside.
The single room was large enough to hold a table and half-a-dozen chairs. The windows were glazed in different colors so that you could by selection view the landscape in the red of sunset, the blue of a cloudy day or the still colder slate hue of a December day.
This diverted Gilbert but a more attractive sight was the spread on the board. It drew an outcry of admiration from Rousseau, a simple lover of good cheer, though a philosopher, from his appetite being as hearty as his taste was modest.
“My dear master,” said Jussieu, “if you blame me for this feast you are wrong, for it is quite a mild set-out—— ”
“Do not depreciate your table, you gormand!”
“Do not call it mine!”
“Not yours? then whose—the brownies, the fairies?” demanded Rousseau, with a smile testifying to his constraint and good nature at the same time.
“You have hit it,” answered the doctor, glancing wistfully to the door.