He had just thought this, and was busy composing a nocturne or a diurne—probably the latter from its tints of red and yellow—upon his plate, which flowed with jam and cream, when Aunt Marguerite, who had eaten all she wished, began to stir her tea with courtly grace, and raised her voice in continuation of something she had been saying, but it was twenty-four hours before.
“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” she said, so that every one should hear; “my memories of the past are painful, and yet a delight. We old Huguenots are proud of our past.”
“You must be, madam.”
“And you too,” said the lady. “I feel sure that if you will take the trouble you will find that I am right. The Pradelles must have been of our people.”
“I’ll look into it as soon as I get back to town,” said the young man.
Harry gave him a very vulgar wink.
“Do,” said Aunt Marguerite. “By the way, I don’t think I told you that though my brother persists in calling himself Vine, our name is Des Vignes, and we belong to one of the oldest families in Auvergne.”
“Yes, that’s right, Mr Pradelle,” said the host, nodding pleasantly; “but when a cruel persecution drove us over here, and old England held out her arms to us, and we found a kindly welcome—”
“My dear George!” interposed Aunt Marguerite.
“Let me finish, my dear,” said Mr Vine, good-temperedly. “It’s Mr Pradelle’s last evening here.”