"Is he at home?"
"He is at Lyons, m'sieur."
"And madame?"
"She is in the south."
"This gentleman with me is an American. His father and mother lived here forty years ago—before the war. Naturally, he would very much like to see the house."
"What is his name, m'sieur?"
Faber told her himself, and the tone of his voice seemed to awaken memories. She began to mumble something in the argot of the "Boul. Mich," and then bade him come in. The room clearly belonged to people who were fond of books when at home, and neglectful of them when away. It was all very untidy and dusty; the furniture handsome, but shown to poor advantage. The very first thing Faber set his hand upon was a volume of Hawthorne's "House of the Seven Gables." His father's name was written beneath an English book-plate.
"Tell her," he said to Morris, "that this was once my father's property."
She did not seem at all interested, but she avoided their glances nevertheless, and seemed strangely afraid of them.
"You understand?" said Faber at last. "My father's book."