"How do you do?" The white man's English had a strong French accent. He shook hands with great cordiality. "We have heard of you from Father Wills also. These Pymeut friends of ours say you have something to tell me."
He spoke as though this something were expected to be highly gratifying, and, indeed, the cheerfulness of Nicholas and his father would indicate as much.
As the Boy, hesitating, did not accept the chair offered, smiling, the Jesuit went on:
"Will you talk of zis matter—whatever it is—first, or will you first go up and wash, and have our conference after supper?"
"No, thank you—a—Are you the Father Superior?"
He bowed a little ceremoniously, but still smiling.
"I am Father Brachet."
"Oh, well, Nicholas is right. The first thing to do is to explain why we're here."
Was it the heat of the stove after the long hours of cold that made him feel a little dizzy? He put up his hand to his head.
"I have told zem to take hot water upstairs," the Father was saying, "and I zink a glass of toddy would be a good sing for you." He slightly emphasised the "you," and turned as if to supplement the original order.