“M. Caracal, of Paris,” Miss Rowrer said, presenting him. “M. Caracal has come to study the country. He is preparing a book.”
“Ah! Monsieur is a professor of agriculture. You are welcome, monsieur,” grand’mère said, with simplicity, leaving Caracal to that isolation which is the lot of psychologues once they leave the Boulevard.
“I shall surely put you into my novel!” Caracal muttered to himself, in his vexation.
“If I had known, I would have taken the covers from the chairs,” said Mlle. Yvonne. “But sit down all the same, I beg of you. Mama will be very glad to see you. She is coming back. I will go fetch her.”
“Don’t mind, Yvonne,” said Ethel; “we will wait. You know,” she added, “everything is delightful to us here.”
There was the same dim light on the silken hangings and the furniture, reflecting its brasses. The air was fine and sweet, like the fragrance of the caskets of our grandmothers in family store-rooms. Through the windows, half open on the garden, they could hear the song of birds amid the groves.
Mme. de Grojean now came in. The chairs were moved from their formal rows and every one sat down. Conversation began.
The perfectly natural manners and air of high distinction of Mlle. Yvonne and Mme. de Grojean, found in the midst of their domestic occupations, were a pleasure to Will.
“You were working at this water-color?” Ethel asked of Mlle. Yvonne.
“No. I’m going to send that to a charity bazaar; but I was working at this.”