"Very interesting. You need no further instruction, I fancy."
"To become proficient," said I, "another lesson or two—possibly——" I paused out near the fountain to stoop over and break off a daisy. From which innocent blossom, absent-mindedly, I plucked the snowy petals one by one as I sauntered along beside Smith.
Presently he began to mutter to himself. At first I remained sublimely unconscious of what he was murmuring, then I caught the outrageous words: "Elle m'aime—un peu—beaucoup—passablement—pas-du-tout——"
"What's that?" I demanded, glaring at him. "What are you gabbling about?"
He seemed surprised at my warmth. I hurled the daisy from me; we turned and strode back in hostile silence toward the bottling house.
My farmer, Raoul Despres, was inside and the door stood open. We could hear the humming of the dynamo. Evidently, obeying my orders of yesterday, he had gone in to look over and report upon the condition of the plant with a view to resuming business where my recent uncle had left off.
We could see his curly black head, and athletic figure inside the low building. As he prowled hither and thither investigating the machinery he was singing blithely to himself:
"Crack-brain-cripple-arm
You have done a heap of harm—
You and yours and all your friends!
Now you'll have to make amends."
Smith and I looked at each other in blank perplexity.
"That's a remarkable song," I said at last.