‘She’s a dear, good little creature,’ Paul boggled along, with a disastrous facility of words which had no guidance. ‘She’s French by descent, but she speaks very good English—very fair English. I taught her. I’ll bring her down to see you. We’re living in Belgium at present, at a little place called Montcourtois, a charming little place. She likes the quiet of it, and it’s very favourable for work. If one lives in town there are so many calls upon one’s time. You can’t get really settled down to the development of an idea, you know.’
‘Ay,’ said Armstrong, ‘I can imagine that. But, Paul, lad, I could have wished ye’d written.’
‘Don’t make it harder than it is, sir,’ Paul appealed. ‘I ought to have written. I’m very sorry that I didn’t, and I’ve come down purposely to explain it all.’
‘Well,’ said his father, ‘better late than never. What kind is she like, lad?’
‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘you can’t expect a man to describe the girl he’s in love with so as to satisfy anybody else She’s slight and not very tall; she has brown hair and brown eyes; she has a very pretty voice, and very dainty ways.’
‘Ay, ay, lad!’ said Armstrong; ‘but her soul—her intelligence?’
‘She’s bright and clever,’ Paul cried, rather protestingly. ‘She takes a keen interest in my work. We’re dearly attached to each other, and I am looking forward to a happy life.’
‘What like are her people?’ Armstrong asked.
‘Well, I don’t know a great deal about her people. She’s an orphan. She has an elder sister, and an aunt and an uncle or two.’
‘She’ll be a Catholic, will she?’