"A little."
"Then you must make up to Colonel Salmon—that's him at the nets—he owns the best trout-stream about here."
Bobby looked at Colonel Salmon, a stout, red-faced man with a head that resembled somewhat the head of a salmon—a salmon with a high sense of its own importance.
Then Pugeot came along smoking a cigarette, and then some of the people began to go. The big limousine reappeared from the back premises with Mudd and the luggage, and Pugeot began to collect his party. Simon reappeared with the elderly lady; they were both smiling and he had evidently done no harm. It would have been better, perhaps, if he had, right at the start. The French ladies were recaptured, and as they bundled into the car quite a bevy of residents surrounded the door, bidding them good-bye for the present.
"Remember, you must come and see my roses," said Mrs. Fisher-Fisher. "Don't bother about formality, just drop in, all of you."
"You'll find Anderson stopping at the hotel; he's quite a nice fellow," cried Sir Squire Simpson. "So long—so long."
"Are they not charming?" said old Madame Rossignol, whose face was slightly flushed with the good time she had been having; "and the beautiful house—and the beautiful garden."
She had not seen a garden for years; verily, Simon was a good fairy as far as the Rossignols were concerned.
They drew up at the Rose Hotel. A vast clambering vine of wisteria shadowed the hall door, and out came the landlord to meet them. Pugeot had telegraphed for rooms; he knew Pugeot, and his reception of them spoke of the fact.
Then the Rossignols were shown to their room, where their poor luggage, such as it was, had been carried before them.