The day for which Phil had waited so impatiently was come at last—the day of the chasse à courre. Ethel left the hunt and came back alone to the glade where grandma, a little tired and seated in the great break, was waiting for the return of the hunters. She got down from her horse and tossed the reins to a valet. The sun lighted up the tops of the lofty trees, leaving all the rest in the shade. From afar they heard the voices of the hounds. The hunting-horn filled the forest with a far-away melody.
“Poor little doe!” said Ethel, “it is nearly an hour since she left the thicket, followed by the hounds. She must be by this time in the pretty valley I christened the other day the Forest of Arden—you remember?—when I was reading there Shakspere’s ‘As You Like It.’ They must have lost the scent—her mate is leading the dogs away from her, no doubt. But it is not for that I have come back, grandma. I wish to speak with you.”
“Why don’t you follow the hunt?” grandma asked. “Has anything happened to you, Ethel?”
“Nothing at all, grandma. My horse was in splendid form, and I, too; but, while taking a ditch, she lost a shoe. She’s limping a little, I think. And then—and then I couldn’t see you alone yesterday at the château, and I have something to say to you. But let us not stay here; they might overhear us,” Ethel added, glancing at the lackeys, who were loading into a van the champagne-baskets and other remains of the picnic.
“I will get down,” said grandma. Leaning on Ethel’s arm, she got out of the break and they crossed the open space.
“Let us go over there,” Ethel said, pointing to one of those graceful edifices called nymphées, which are the necessary ornament of every self-respecting park. It consisted of a bench, green with the mold of time and surrounded by a colonnade covered with moss and ivy. It gave this corner of the forest a mythological note. It was like one of those rustic shrines where, in the shadow of the sacred grove, goddesses were appeased by the offering of victims.
“Who would not say this is a scene of Shakspere’s fancy?” said Ethel. “Listen to the hunting-horn—you might believe you were in an enchanted forest. But,” she added, as grandma sat down, “there is no question now of Will the Great, but only of our own dear Will, and of Mlle. Yvonne.”
“She’s very nice,” said grandma. “She’ll profit a great deal by your company, between Will and you. From being a doll, Yvonne will soon become a woman.”
“Mlle. Yvonne is already a woman—a true one,” Ethel went on, gravely. “She has an upright mind and a strong and resolute heart; and I love her.”
“She’s going to marry Will?” grandma exclaimed, starting up. “That dear little Yvonne?”