“I can hardly remember; he is dark, I think.”
“I had an idea that I had heard that Monsieur Dalville came to your house very often?”
“Oh, no! he goes to my husband’s office, on business.”
“Is he musical?”
“A little.”
“I have brought a nocturne that I am crazy over; he must sing it with me.”
“Monsieur Dalville will certainly be delighted to sing with you.—Excuse me, my dear, but I have some orders to give. In the country we don’t stand on ceremony.”
“I should hope not! I will go out and see your garden.”
“Do; I am going to order luncheon, and I will come and call you.”
The petite-maîtresse tripped lightly down the stairs leading to the garden, and Madame Destival went to her bedroom, where she threw herself on a lounge, saying to Julie as she came in: