“Shall I go and warn her the hundred-and-first time?” asked Loo, willing enough.
“Yes, my friend, do. And speak to her severely. She is only a child, remember.”
“Yes—I will remember that.”
Juliette did not seem to hear his approach across the turf where the goats fed now, but stood with her back toward him, a few feet below him, actually in that breach effected long ago by those pestilential English. They must have prized out the great stones with crowbars and torn them down with their bare hands.
Juliette was looking over the vineyards toward the river, which gleamed across the horizon. She was humming to herself the last lines of the song:
D’un bout du monde A l’autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout.
She turned with a pretty swing of her skirts to gather them in her hand.
“You must go no farther, mademoiselle,” said Loo.
She stopped, half bending to take her skirt, but did not look back. Then she took two steps downward from stone to stone. The blocks were half embedded in the turf and looked ready to fall under the smallest additional weight.
“It is not I who say so, but your father who sent me,” explained the admonisher from above.