"I love this sitting-room, Prince," murmured my master in my ear. "Oh! how can boys play on dusty streets?"
"Ho, ho, my little master," I whispered back. "You are coming on. Soon you will be embracing these beloved trees."
But he did not understand me, and turned to gaze at the two men sitting on two of the rustic arm-chairs, and staring at the river highway with as much interest as if it had been a city street.
Opposite them was a wide green meadow where some red cows were grazing. A brown canoe was drawn up among the white water lilies, and a woman was feeding salt to some of the cows.
Occasionally ducks and big bluish cranes flew overhead, their funny feet sticking out behind, and once in a while a boat went gliding by.
One of the men was a big heavy low-browed creature. I knew he must be the Russian. He was smoking stolidly, and sometimes took his pipe from his mouth and, wrinkling his brow like a monkey, looked as if he were thinking about something that puzzled him.
His companion was a slender dark young man in khaki-coloured knickerbockers, and a green woollen shirt, and he sat quite still, his eyes sad and dreamy, his hands on his knees.
"That's Denty, the warden's son," whispered Cassowary. "He was wounded at Vimy Ridge and has had shell-shock. His father has to be away from home a good deal, and one reason he keeps the Russian is to give Denty something to do."
"Is the warden French?" asked Dallas.