Never was man more at a loss for some of the kindly commonplaces of society. She seems sacred in her grief, and he cannot offer the stern comfort wherewith a man solaces himself; he is too new for the little nothings of love, and so they walk gravely on, down the stairs again, and out on the porch that hangs over the slope. But she likes him the better for his silence, and the air of strength seems to stir her languid pulses.
Denise summons them to their meal. He pours a trifle of wine for her in the daintiest, thinnest glass, she pours tea for him in a cup that would make a hunter of rare old china thrill to the finger-ends. He puts a bit of the cold chicken on her plate, and insists that she shall try the toast and the creamed potatoes. She has such a meek little habit of obedience that he almost smiles.
When the dessert has been eaten and they rise, Denise says, with kindly authority, "Go take a walk in the garden, Miss Violet, while I talk to Mr. Grandon. Pardon me; madame, I mean."
Grandon smiles, and Violet, looking at him, smiles also, but goes with her light movement, so full of grace.
"It is about the child's clothes, monsieur," Denise begins, her wrinkled face flushing. "She has no trousseau, there has been no time, and I am an old woman, but it is all mourning, and she does not like black. It is too gloomy for the child, but what is to be done?"
Floyd Grandon is much puzzled. If madame,—but no, he would not want madame's wisdom in this case, even if he could have it. There is his mother; well, he cannot ask her. Gertrude would not feel able to bother.
"She wore a dress to the funeral," he says, with the vaguest idea of what it was.
"Her father would have her buy some pretty light things when she was in the city, but her other dresses are what she had at school, gray and black. They are not suitable for madame. Some are still short——"
"You will have to go with her," Grandon says. "I can take you both into the city some day."
"But I do not know——"