He laughed tenderly. "My dear old father! I am so proud of him, dear love, I can't express it at all."
"I know."
"And I am proud of petite mère, too. She was so brave and patient always, and he has led her a sad life at times. They were desperately poor, for her father left most of his money to his other daughter, who married Jacques Colibris. You must see my Uncle Jacques, he is quite delightful—and father was a gambler—and so on. I can myself remember one morning when he came in and told her he had lost two hundred pounds, and that was a fortune then."
"She told me about those times," answered Brigit, slowly. "She is very dear and good."
They were now going slowly down towards the town. It was five o'clock, and the concièrge's children were scampering about, uncombed, as they passed the cottage.
"We'll go to the Musée and knock up old Malaumain," declared Théo suddenly. "He won't mind, and she will give us a good déjeuner. I could eat a horse."
"And I a carriage! But why go to a museum for breakfast?"
"It is a café—old Malaumain is a collector."
"Of what?"
"Of everything. From bird's eggs to souvenirs of Guillaume, whom he adores. The house is supposed to have been at one time lived in by the Conqueror, and old Malaumain has made busts of him, and pictures, and all kinds of things. He will talk to you about l'Entente cordiale and the crossing of the two races, and the Friendly Hand, until you muzzle him. He is a dear old chap, and his wife is a very excellent cook. I used to run away when I was a little kid visiting grand-mère, and go and beg her for sandcakes with the Conqueror's head done on top in sugar!"