A figure came towards her, crossing the parterre d'eau. She perceived her father—just released, no doubt, from two English acquaintances with whom he had been exploring the 'Bosquet d'Apollon.'
He hurried towards her—a tall Don Quixote of a man, gaunt, active, grey-haired, with a stride like a youth of eighteen, and the very minimum of flesh on his well-hung frame. Lord Findon had gone through many agitations during the last ten or twelve years. In his own opinion, he had upset a Ministry, he had recreated the army, and saved the Colonies to the Empire. That history was not as well aware of these feats as it should be, he knew; but in the memoirs, of which there were now ten volumes privately printed in his drawer, he had provided for that. Meanwhile, in the rush of his opinions and partisanships, two things at least had persisted unchanged—his adoration for Eugénie—and his belief that if only man—and much more woman—would but exchange 'gulping' for 'chewing'—would only, that is to say, reform their whole system of mastication, and thereby of digestion, the world would be another and a happier place.
He came up now, frowning, and out of temper.
'Upon my word, Eugénie, the blindness of some people is too amazing!'
'Is it? Sit down, papa, and look at that!'
She pushed a chair towards him, smiling, and pointed to the terrace, the woods, the sky.
'It's all very well, my dear,' said Lord Findon, seating himself—'but this place tries me a good deal.'
'Because the ladies in the restaurant are so stout?' said Eugénie.
'Dear papa—somebody must keep these cooks in practice!'
'Never did I see such spectacles!' said Lord Findon, fuming. 'And when one knows that the very smallest attention to their diet—and they might be sylphs again—as young as their grandchildren!—it's really disheartening.'
'It is,' said Eugénie. 'Shall we announce a little conference in the salon? I'm sure the ladies would flock.'