“Send in the bills,” Mr. Ruck went on, rising to his feet. “Don’t hesitate, Sophy. I don’t care what you do now. In for a penny, in for a pound.”
Miss Ruck joined her mother, with a little toss of her head, and we followed the ladies to the carriage. “In your place,” said Miss Sophy to her father, “I wouldn’t talk so much about pennies and pounds before strangers.”
Poor Mr. Ruck appeared to feel the force of this observation, which, in the consciousness of a man who had never been “mean,” could hardly fail to strike a responsive chord. He coloured a little, and he was silent; his companions got into their vehicle, the front seat of which was adorned with a large parcel. Mr. Ruck gave the parcel a little poke with his umbrella, and then, turning to me with a rather grimly penitential smile, “After all,” he said, “for the ladies that’s the principal interest.”
CHAPTER VII.
Old M. Pigeonneau had more than once proposed to me to take a walk, but I had hitherto been unable to respond to so alluring an invitation. It befell, however, one afternoon, that I perceived him going forth upon a desultory stroll, with a certain lonesomeness of demeanour that attracted my sympathy. I hastily overtook him, and passed my hand into his venerable arm, a proceeding which produced in the good old man so jovial a sense of comradeship that he ardently proposed we should bend our steps to the English Garden; no locality less festive was worthy of the occasion. To the English Garden, accordingly, we went; it lay beyond the bridge, beside the lake. It was very pretty and very animated; there was a band playing in the middle, and a considerable number of persons sitting under the small trees, on benches and little chairs, or strolling beside the blue water. We joined the strollers, we observed our companions, and conversed on obvious topics. Some of these last, of course, were the pretty women who embellished the scene, and who, in the light of M. Pigeonneau’s comprehensive criticism, appeared surprisingly numerous. He seemed bent upon our making up our minds as to which was the prettiest, and as this was an innocent game I consented to play at it.
Suddenly M. Pigeonneau stopped, pressing my arm with the liveliest emotion. “La voilà, la voilà, the prettiest!” he quickly murmured, “coming toward us, in a blue dress, with the other.” It was at the other I was looking, for the other, to my surprise, was our interesting fellow-pensioner, the daughter of a vigilant mother. M. Pigeonneau, meanwhile, had redoubled his exclamations; he had recognised Miss Sophy Ruck. “Oh, la belle rencontre, nos aimables convives; the prettiest girl in the world, in effect!”
We immediately greeted and joined the young ladies, who, like ourselves, were walking arm in arm and enjoying the scene.
“I was citing you with admiration to my friend even before I had recognised you,” said M. Pigeonneau to Miss Ruck.
“I don’t believe in French compliments,” remarked this young lady, presenting her back to the smiling old man.
“Are you and Miss Ruck walking alone?” I asked of her companion. “You had better accept of M. Pigeonneau’s gallant protection, and of mine.”