"Don't you know that dog?" asked White Pigeon.
"Certainement—he is on the wall of your room."
We were shown into a little reception-parlor, where we were welcomed by a tall, handsome woman, about White Pigeon's age.
The woman kissed White Pigeon on one cheek, and I afterwards asked White Pigeon why she didn't turn to me the other, and she said I was a fool.
Then the tall woman went to the door and called up the stairway: "Antoine, Antoine, guess who it is? It's White Pigeon!"
A man came down the stairs three steps at a time, and took both of White Pigeon's hands in his, after the hearty manner of a gentleman of France. Then I was introduced.
Antoine looked at our lunch-basket with the funniest look I ever saw, and asked what it was.
"Lunch," said White Pigeon; "I can not tell a lie!"
Antoine made wild gesticulations of displeasure, denouncing us in pantomime.
But White Pigeon explained that we only came on a quiet picnic in search of ozone and had dropped in to make a little call before we went on up to the forest. But could we see the horses?