She almost wept with pleasure over her gifts; never, she declared, were such charming objects seen. And of a utility! Tiens! this beautiful blotter, how it would adorn her desk! And the exquisite chain! Would it not sustain her spectacle case, which in future would never, as had so often happened, become wholly lost? And—“Ma Patricia! this beautiful scarf cannot be for me: tell me not so, my child! It is for a princess rather!” etc., etc.
Dear Madame Madeleine! Surely her birthday was the happiest day of the happy year for herself and all of us.
After the presentation, all was joyous bustle and hurry: baskets to pack, shawls and cloaks to collect, fiacres to summon; all for the annual expedition to the Rochers de Meillerie, the most wonderful picnic place in the world. The fiacres (three of them! it made quite a procession!) took the party down to the lake, where the little steamer lay at her pier, the smoke pouring from her funnel. What terror lest they should be late! What frantic signals waved from the six windows of the procession of fiacres! The steamer gave no sign, but puffed away stolidly; they had been on board half an hour, sitting on their camp stools in a serried phalanx, before she rang her bell, shrieked thrice through her whistle and began her leisurely progress across the lake.
What a voyage of wonder that was! The morning was crystal clear, the mountains stood in dazzling white and resplendent green, the lake was a great sparkling sapphire studded with gold and diamonds.
Honor, sitting near the stern, watched the swirling wake, stretching far behind, saw the rainbow bubbles rise, dance, break, fall away in silver showers. She was fascinated, could not even look up at her beloved mountains.
“Tiens!” whispered Stephanie. “This tall stranger, very distinguished, who regards us, Moriole!”
Honor shook her shoulders a little impatiently. Stephanie was always seeing distinguished strangers; they seldom, if ever, were distinguished in Honor’s eyes.
Suppose, she thought, an Arm should suddenly appear, rising from the bosom of the lake,
“Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful!”
Suppose Undine were there—no! she lived in a fountain; well, other nymphs then! There must be ever so many. But it was to be some time yet before Honor came to her water world.