“Look, Honor! that old lady again who regards thee. My faith, but her eyes devour thee. One would say she was hungry, not so?”
Honor looked up, to find a pair of bright dark eyes fixed on her with singular intentness. They belonged to a lady whom the girls had seen several times of late in the Garden; an old lady, richly dressed, who sometimes drove slowly in a victoria, sometimes, as to-day, sat on a garden chair under the trees. She was accompanied by a trim, rosy little person, who might be nurse, companion or courier. She seemed interested in all the girls, but specially in Honor, whose looks and motions she studied openly and deliberately.
To-day, after a prolonged look which yet was not a stare, she said a few words to her companion, who stepped forward and in turn addressed Soeur Séraphine, who was shepherding her little flock. The Sister looked up in surprise; glanced toward the lady on the garden chair; then hastily adjuring the girls to be extremely sage and to observe well the beauties of Nature, she advanced with an air of respectful interest toward the old lady, who, with a civil nod, beckoned her to a seat beside her. The nurse, companion or courier retired to a discreet distance. The girls, devoured by curiosity, paid scant attention to the beauties of nature.
“Stephanie, you must not stare!” whispered Honor. “Look at that swan; he is pecking the young one as hard as he can.”
Stephanie glanced anxiously at the swan. “They are savage creatures!” she said. “A swan once pecked my grandmother, tearing large portions of flesh from her bones. It was a frightful thing; she turned black with terror. Observe her dress, Moriole! It is richness itself, though sombre, and in distinguished taste.”
“Your grandmother’s? Or the swan’s?” Honor laughed.
“A squirrel! a squirrel!” cried little Loulou. “Where are the nuts, Vivette?”
Squirrel and nuts made a brief diversion, but it was hard not to glance more often than one should at the couple on the garden chairs. They were talking earnestly; the Sister with her pretty, fluttering gestures, the other with an occasional wave of a delicate ringed hand, or an emphatic nod. Finally—oh, wonder! oh, thrill upon thrill!—the Sister rose and beckoned—to whom? Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence rose with dignity, and was gliding forward, swanlike, when the Sister’s voice was heard, silver clear.
“Honor! Approach, my child!”
Jacqueline drew back with an air of elaborate unconcern. Honor, with a deprecating glance at her, and a round-eyed flash at Stephanie, advanced timidly.