“Papa is a very clever man”—went on the charming Lenore confidingly,—“he has a beautiful castle in France, but he is so fond of England—oh, so fond!—He would rather live in quite little apartments in England than in a palace in France!”
“Really!” said Boy.
“Yes! And he is so fond of Englishmen. He adores them! You are English?”
“Yes,” answered Boy. “My name is Robert D’Arcy-Muir. I am the only son of the Honourable James D’Arcy-Muir.”
“The Honourable?” queried Lenore with a fascinating uplifting of her delicate eyebrows. “Ah yes, that is one of your English distinctions—so grand and meaning so much! Our titles in France mean nothing!”
“I have been in France,” said Boy.
“Have you? Did you like it?”
“I was only at school there when a boy,” he replied. “The school was near the sea-coast in Brittany.”
“Ah, dear Brittany! So charming—so picturesque—so poetic!”
“Well, I can’t say much about that,” said Boy. “I was there just for a year,—but I didn’t care about it. The boys were rather a bad lot.”