But the remarks were strictly confidential. The boys would not have injured Miss Evans’s feelings on any account: they were too well-bred for that. Besides, they liked her very much.
The early breakfast—or le café—consisted of café au lait,—which is coffee served with boiled milk,—rolls, and unsalted butter. This butter had been moulded into the shape of wild roses, with petals as thin as wafers, and each guest had two of these wee roses on a tiny dish beside his plate at table.
“Papa enjoys the butter, don’t you see, mamma?” said Molly, in a low tone as they left the dining-room.
“Yes, I observed it,” returned her mother, looking pleased. “I fancy his appetite is really improving.”
Then they all mounted the black jaunting-car waiting in the court. Donald was in boisterous spirits: so delighted at his escape from the confinement of the steamer that he could hardly contain himself.
The two seats of the car ran lengthwise and faced each other. Miss Evans sat near the front, just behind the driver’s box, which the voluble coachman shared with Captain Bradstreet. French cochers are very fond of imparting information, and this one discoursed so rapidly concerning the farms, houses, and people along the way that the captain finally turned around to Miss Evans with a comical look of despair, and said,—
“Will you please tell me what this man is raving about? He telescopes his words so that I can’t understand him.”
“He was speaking just now of these neat piles of broken stone by the roadside, Captain Bradstreet,” replied Miss Evans, smiling. “He says government requires every man to furnish a given weight—I missed the number of pounds—of this crushed stone to repair the highways.”
“That’s why the roads look so very neat. Just the thing for bicycles. I wish they had such a law in the United States.”
“I made the same remark to the cocher,” returned Miss Evans, who seemed to talk to the man with the greatest ease.