Blaydes came to stand beside the speaker, glancing at him with eyes half curious, half mocking.
"You get so much pleasure out of it?"
For answer, Lathrop murmured a few words as though to himself, a sudden lightening in his sleepy eyes—
L'univers—si liquide, si pur!—
Une belle eau qu'on voudrait boire.
"I don't understand French"—said Blaydes, with a shrug—"not French verse, anyway."
"That's a pity," was the dry reply—"because you can't read Madame de Noailles. Ah!—there are Lang's pheasants calling!—his tenants I suppose—for he's left the shooting."
He pointed to a mass of wood on his left hand from which the sound came.
"They say he's never here?"
"Two or three times a year,—just on business. His wife—a little painted doll—hates the place, and they've built a villa at Beaulieu."
"Rather risky leaving a big house empty in these days—with your wild women about!"