Then discreetly Gerald knocked at the door of the drawing-room, where Mademoiselle seemed to sit all day.
"Entrez!" came her voice; and Gerald entered. She was not reading, as usual, but bent over a sketch-book; on the table was an open colour-box of un-English appearance, and a box of that slate-coloured liquid so familiar alike to the greatest artist in watercolours and to the humblest child with a sixpenny paintbox.
"With all of our loves," said Gerald, laying the flowers down suddenly before her.
"But it is that you are a dear child. For this it must that I embrace you no?" And before Gerald could explain that he was too old, she kissed him with little quick French pecks on the two cheeks.
"Are you painting?" he asked hurriedly, to hide his annoyance at being treated like a baby.
"I achieve a sketch of yesterday," she answered; and before he had time to wonder what yesterday would look like in a picture she showed him a beautiful and exact sketch of Yalding Towers.
"Oh, I say ripping!" was the critic's comment. "I say, mayn't the others come and see?" The others came, including Mabel, who stood awkwardly behind the rest, and looked over Jimmy's shoulder.
"I say, you are clever," said Gerald respectfully.
"To what good to have the talent, when one must pass one's life at teaching the infants?" said Mademoiselle.
"It must be fairly beastly," Gerald owned.