“Yes, making them acquainted with Voltaire,” he said, laughingly. “But you are to be envied, god-mother, in having her all to yourself; she adores you!”
The dark old face flushed slightly, and the keen eyes softened with pleasure.
“It was Alain’s choice, and it was a good one,” she said, briefly. “What of the English people you asked to bring today?”
“They are not English; one is American and one is Irish.”
“True; but their Anglo-Saxon makes them all English to me. I hear there are so many of them in Paris now; Comtesse Biron brings one today; there is her message, what is the name?”
Dumaresque unfolded the pink sheet, glanced at it and smiled.
“My faith; it is the mother of the young lieutenant whom I asked to bring, Madame McVeigh. So, she was a school friend of the Comtesse Helene, eh? That seems strange; still, this Madame McVeigh may be a French woman transplanted.”
“I do not know; but it will be a comfort if she speaks French. The foreigners of only one language are trying.”
Mrs. McVeigh offered no linguistic difficulties to the dowager who was charmed with her friend’s friend.