“Yes, sir,” said the young man feebly, looking at my six feet of stature.
I went out with him, and we found the Countess sitting under one of the little quince-trees in front of the house. She was drawing a needle through the piece of embroidery which she had taken from the small table. She pointed graciously to the chair beside her, and I seated myself. Mr. Mixter glanced about him, and then sat down in the grass at her feet. He gazed upward, looking with parted lips from the Countess to me. “I am sure you speak French,” said the Countess, fixing her brilliant little eyes upon me.
“I do, madam, after a fashion,” I answered in the lady’s own tongue.
“Voilà!” she cried most expressively. “I knew it so soon as I looked at you. You have been in my poor dear country.”
“A long time.”
“You know Paris?”
“Thoroughly, madam.” And with a certain conscious purpose I let my eyes meet her own.
She presently, hereupon, moved her own and glanced down at Mr. Mixter “What are we talking about?” she demanded of her attentive pupil.
He pulled his knees up, plucked at the grass with his hand, stared, blushed a little. “You are talking French,” said Mr. Mixter.
“La belle découverte!” said the Countess. “Here are ten months,” she explained to me, “that I am giving him lessons. Don’t put yourself out not to say he’s an idiot; he won’t understand you.”