"It is not the same without Monsieur Tanrade," Suzette sighed to-day as she brought my luncheon to my easel in a shady corner of my wild garden—a corner all cool roses and shadow.
"Ah, no!" I confessed as I squeezed out the last of a tube of vermilion on the edge of my palette.
"Ah, no!" she sighed softly, and wiped her eyes briskly with the back of her dimpled red hand. "Ah, no! Parbleu!"
And just then the bell over my gate jingled. "Some one rings," whispered Suzette and she ran to open the gate. It was the valet de chambre from the château with a note from Alice, which read:
Dear Friend: It is lonely, this big house of mine. Do come and dine with me at eight.
Hastily, A. de B.
Added to this was the beginning of a postscript crossed out.
Upon a leaf torn from my sketchbook I scribbled the answer:
Good Dear Charitable Friend: The House Abandoned is a hollow mockery without Tanrade. I'll come gladly at eight.