“It is best not to think of it at all,” she said.
“I must think of it, Proté. Maman is there and Lisle. Do you think Neville will come in a few days, Proté? Do say that you do!”
“God grant it, Little Mademoiselle!” Proté answered.
They all smiled at Marie Josephine when she appeared ready for the outdoor supper with Great-aunt Hortense’s shawl over her white dress. It was a scarlet crêpe shawl, heavily embroidered in white fleur de lys, and it was so long that it almost completely covered her. She threw one end of it around her shoulder and walked majestically down the terrace steps.
“You did that well, Marie Josephine. It was quite like mother’s Spanish friend at the opera,” Bertran du Monde said to her, taking her arm and bowing mockingly as they went toward the supper table. This was unusual praise from Bertran, who generally quarreled with her.
“You think you can make me believe that you were ever allowed to go to your aunt’s box at the opera at night!” returned Marie Josephine. It was something she had wanted so very much to do herself.
“I have been several times. Is that not so, Cécile?” Bertran answered, appealing to his sister, who had just come up to them with Madame le Pont and Hortense.
Cécile nodded smilingly.
It was a merry supper party, for somehow everyone seemed to be in good humor. Bertran pretended to be quite overcome at being the only gentleman among so many grand ladies. He sat at the foot of the table and Hortense at the head. She was lovely in rose-dotted silk, her wide skirts fluttering about her in the light wind, a fichu of thread lace fastened at her breast. Cécile was lovely, too, in her pale green, her golden hair dressed high as she had worn it at the bal masqué. Denise and Marie Josephine sat one on each side of the governess, both in white except for the gorgeous red of Marie’s shawl. Bertran had changed from his riding clothes into blue velvet trunks and waistcoat. His stiff black hair was fastened with a huge black velvet bow. The buckles on his velvet slippers sparkled like diamonds. They all laughed at him because he had put a black patch over his left eyebrow in imitation of a grown-up man-about-town. His face was so round and fat and he looked so young that such a very grown-up affair as a patch amused them all, especially Marie Josephine.
“We all know you are fourteen and that you will not be a Grand Seigneur for a great many years.” Marie Josephine smiled sweetly across at Bertran as she spoke and emphasized great.