Sunday had come round again. Christopher went alone with his father to the dancing lesson.
“I should like to stay at home,” said Anne, in her timid, veiled voice. She looked so imploring that they let her have her way.
At the usual hour in the afternoon the bell sounded at the gate. Uncle Sebastian stood between its pillars.
Anne ran to meet him. From his writing table the builder nodded his head.
“Sit down.” He continued to write close small numbers into a linen-bound book. He did not put his pen down till Netti appeared with coffee on the parrot-painted tray. The steam of the milkcan passed yellow through the light of the candle. The smell of coffee penetrated the room. The two old men now talked of days gone by.
“Things were better then,” growled Uncle Sebastian every now and then, without ever attempting to justify his statement. Meanwhile he dipped big pieces of white bread into his coffee. He brushed the crumbs into his hand and put them into his waistcoat pocket for the birds.
It struck Anne that her grandfather never spoke to Uncle Sebastian as he spoke to adults, but rather in the way he had with her and Christopher. At first he seemed indulgent, later he became impatient.
“So it was better then, was it?” And he told the tale of some noble gentleman who had had one of his serfs thrashed half-dead because he dared to pick flowers under the castle window for his bride. The girl was beautiful. The gentleman looked at her and sent the serf to the army against Buonaparte as a grenadier—for life.
“Nowadays, the noble gentlemen go themselves to war, and in our parts they even share their land with their former serfs. Do you understand, Sebastian? Without compulsion, of their own free will.”
“Are we noble too?” asked Anne from her corner of the check-covered couch.