“Enough,” thunders the old gentleman, melodramatically, “you shall not leave your boudoir, not even tho the populace cry ‘The Queen! the Queen! let us see the Queen!’ Consider it henceforth as your dungeon. I have given orders to the guards without.” The shutters open half way.
AN HABITUÉ
“Has anyone caught anything!” ventures shyly the owner of the shower of golden hair.
“One!” savagely reply the others.
“Who caught it?” comes excitedly from the window.
“Yvette!”
“Bravo!” applauds Suzanne. “I am coming down!” And she does, making her way through the roses. Her exquisite hair is twisted in a hurried coil. The voluminous sleeves of her peignoir reveal her pretty bare arms as she runs. The next instant Suzanne is in the barge fishing with the rest.
Bees drone lazily over the flowers in the tiny garden; the river flashes in the warm sun; a carillon of bells from a breezy belfry on the hillside strikes noon, and the four enthusiasts pull up their lines and go to déjeuner.
A table in the garden is laid for eight. Marie, Suzanne’s bonne, is drying the salad vigorously in its wire cage. In a cool corner the cobwebbed bottles of Chambertin sleep in their baskets.