"No, Agathe! You will inrhume yourself——"
She turns to beam brighter than the moon itself at the comely dark face of the only man who has ever protested whether she took cold or not. He, too, has been studying a speech in the language of the country into which he is marrying.
He brings it out, and the ears of love are quick to understand even his English, even his accent.
"I oueelle trai to you rendaire 'appeee, Agathe!"
"Oh," she breathed, with a little clutch to the blue-sleeved arm. "Oh, but you do, you have!"
They return to the salle....
But the assembled visitors cannot spend the whole evening in contemplating the happiness of Miss Walsh and of Gustave Tronchet, serjent d'artillerie.
Other groups begin to make their own arrangements; in one of the bedrooms the Madonna-like French mother and the Brittany nurse are putting to bed Lucien, the little damson-dark boy, who was also at Miss Walsh's tea; he is repeating, with the correct pronunciation of a child to whom all language is new, a little prayer that she has taught him:
"I see the moon and the moon sees me,
God bless the moon and God bless me!"
In another bedroom Olwen Howel-Jones has just run up to get into her big driving-coat; she thinks of going out for a breath of fresh air and of moonlight. Why not? Mrs. Cartwright will probably come if she's asked.