“Do let me take your stick and hat,” she ventured, unable longer to repress her fears of his possible sudden departure. He seemed to give them to her almost unwillingly, peeling off his dogskin gloves and expressing himself as deeply touched by her welcome, and adding that he feared he was “very much de trop,” as he noticed that she was about to go out.
“You must be frank with me, Mrs. Ford; I fear I am keeping you,” he declared, rising briskly.
“You see, darling,” she explained to Sue, “I was just going around to see the little Jones girl; she’s been desperately ill, you know. You mustn’t think of going, Mr. Lamont. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?—and you’ll make yourself at home, won’t you? You’ll stay to tea, of course. Just one moment while I tell the maid.”
“Won’t you please go on telling me more of the wonderful things of your life, Mr. Lamont?” pleaded Sue, as her mother returned. “Oh, mother, I have had such a glorious walk. If you could only have heard all the interesting things Mr. Lamont has been telling me. Do tell me more about Planquette. Think of it, mother—Mr. Lamont actually knew him.”
“Oh, do!” exclaimed Mrs. Ford. “How interesting—oh, dear! I wish I could stay, but I must see the Jones girl. They’ll be hurt if I don’t, you know, deary,” she smiled, nodding to Sue. “But you’re coming again, aren’t you, Mr. Lamont?” she insisted, grasping his hand warmly.
“I should be charmed to,” said he, and bowed over her hand; in fact, he lifted it to his lips, a gesture Mrs. Ford had read about in novels and seen on the stage, but had never experienced. Her startled, embarrassed delight did not escape him.
“Then you can tell me all about Planquette,” said she, beaming over the honor he had bestowed upon her finger-tips. “Planquette! What a wonderful man he was, wasn’t he? Of course, we’ve all read his books, his ‘Miserables’ was one of my father’s favorites. Grand, isn’t it, Mr. Lamont? So full of quaint pathos and humor. I’ve simply shrieked over it when I was a girl.”
“But, mother dear,” exclaimed Sue, “we were speaking of Planquette, the composer—not Victor Hugo!”
“Why, of course—how stupid of me.”
“I was just telling your daughter,” he explained, “that I happened to know Planquette, you see, because my mother and I used to rent a little villa in Cabourg for the summer, not far from his on the Normandy coast. We lived in France several years, Mrs. Ford, long after my schoolboy days there.”