After a little further conversation on financial and sporting topics while Lambert was putting his papers together with some degree of rough order, he proposed to join his daughter.
"She was out to mass with her friends the Davilliers, and had breakfast with them; I have scarcely seen her this morning." So saying, he rose and led Glynn through the dining-room to an arched doorway, across which a curtain of rich dark stuff was drawn, and lifting it cried, "Are you there, my jewel? I have brought Mr. Glynn to see you."
"Come in," said a voice; and as he entered Glynn saw Miss Lambert advancing from an open window to meet him.
The room into which he had been ushered was small, though larger than the minute apartment Lambert had appropriated. It was prettily and lightly decorated, the hangings and chair-covers being of chintz, bouquets of roses tied with blue ribbon on a cream ground, and had one large window opening on a balcony full of flowers, which overhung a garden belonging to a large hotel in a street behind. There were books and needle-work, a writing-table and a sewing-machine about, and it was evidently Miss Lambert's private sitting-room. A stout, elderly woman in black, with a lace cap and a large apron, who looked more than a servant and less than a lady, rose as they entered, and was about to leave the room, when Lambert exclaimed in his hearty manner and rather peculiar French, "How goes it, Madame Weber? I hope your cold is better; a summer cold is worse than any other, for it's out of season."
Madame thanked monsieur, reported herself nearly or quite well, and vanished.
"I thought you had left Paris, at least my father did," said Elsie Lambert, giving Glynn one hand, while the other held an open book—a shabby, well-thumbed book.
"I should not have left without calling to say good-bye, to thank you again for your delightful songs," returned Glynn.
She smiled. "Will you sit down, or shall we go into the salon, this is such a tiny place?"
"Oh, we are snug enough here. And how are you, my dear? you haven't said 'good-morning' to your old father yet."
"My old father!" leaning her head against him for an instant, with inexpressible loving grace; "why, he is younger than I am, Mr. Glynn. When I have been brooding over my book or work I always feel as if some bright, pleasant playfellow had come to rouse me when my father walks in."