"I don't see the pansies," remarked de Lussac.
"No! I shall put them in presently. I shall finish the picture this afternoon."
"I see," said de Lussac, "that Madame Grantham will have the bunch of pansies in her hand, and that she will look lovingly at them."
"Yes, it is her favourite flower," replied Philip, "and mine too. There was a bed of pansies growing just under her window in that beautiful country house where I met her for the first time and where I courted her. She tended them herself, and called them 'her family.' Before entering the house, I would always pluck one and place it in my buttonhole. When it was faded, I gave it to her. It is utter nonsense, I know; but, after all, happiness is made up of little foolish trifles of that sort."
"The Anglo-Saxons!" said de Lussac—"a practical and yet sentimental race."
Philip went to a bureau and, opening a drawer, took out a little packet carefully tied up.
"Here they are," said he, "her family."
And he replaced the packet with great care.
"This is charming, quite romantic," cried de Lussac, "perfectly idyllic! You know, you are a curious mixture, mon cher ami. Fancy your inventive genius turning to an instrument of war that will make widows of wives who perhaps once had such a 'family.'"
"Oh, if I thought that!" exclaimed Philip.