“With whom the lord of the manor consorts? M. de St Denys, then, is not fastidious in his choice of company?”
“Truly, even you need not hesitate to address him, if that is what you mean. He listens to all alike; he holds himself a human being like the rest of us. When he walks in the sun he will not think his shadow longer than that of another man of his height.”
“And he is the soul of honour?”
“Essentially, monsieur. He would extend the right of an equal indulgence in pleasure to all.”
“Ah, ma chérie!” said Ned calmly, “how you must love him!”
“That is of necessity,” said the girl. “He has lowered himself to make us do so.”
Ned ate a very large and deliberate breakfast, and then issued forth into the village, carrying his letter of introduction with him.
“This St Denys,” he thought, “has been reading Diderot and the Encyclopedia. Has he also theories of reconstruction? My uncle would not think it amusing that his letter should so miscarry.”
A little breeze had risen, blowing from the south. It made the heat more tolerable, and it was the begetter of a pretty tableau by the village fountain. For there, with her pitcher set on the well-rim, stood a bright Hebe of the sun, ripe, warm, and glowing as the very fruit of desire. Now she had put her hands back under her free-falling hair—that was thick and pheasant brown and wavy like a spaniel’s—and had lifted it, sagging, that the cool air might blow under and comfort the roots. She was a full-bosomed wench, and the pose threw her figure into energetic and very graceful relief. Ned, who was really passionless, and responsive only to the artistic provocation, went up to her at once.
“I should like to draw you like that,” said he.