Mr. Roquevillard repeated good-naturedly:
“Very pretty, indeed.”
But it was his daughter that he praised. She laughed and ran off, saying:
“Now I’ll go and warn Maurice.”
The young man came in promptly after his sister had gone for him.
“You have something to say to me?” he asked as he entered, his hat and cane in his hand, as if he had only a little while to stay.
He was tall, like his father, but thinner and more polished. More elegant in manner, too, and in appearance, he, nevertheless, did not, like his father, bear the same signs of grandeur in his face and attitude, a natural majesty which Mr. Roquevillard at this particular moment tried to tone down, assuming instead an air of affectionate comradeship.
“See how Margaret has arranged your table,” he began.
“My table?”
“Yes, this one, with the roses. You see the castle from it and there’s a good light. Wouldn’t you like to complete your reading with me, Maurice?”