"Brave Francis went the devil's way,
Bold sprang the hawk, laughed maidens gay!
Yet he learned to eat from an Emperor's tray,
Sans hawk, sans hound, sans maiden gay.
A-lack-a-day! A-lack-a-day!
From Pavia's steeple struck Doomsday!"
After all, it was best by the river-side. You saw things there, and if the Professor were in good humour, he would talk on and on, while you could—that is, Claire could—throw stones in the water without disturbing the even flow of the big, fine words. Not too large stones, but only pebbles, else he would rise and march on, with a frown at being interrupted, but without at all perceiving the cause. For at such times Claire always looked especially demure.
"You are indeed my dear Uncle Anatole," she said one day, when they had been longer by the water-side than usual; "you were just made for it. If you had not been—I declare I should have adopted you!"
There was something teasing about Claire's accent, at once girlish and light, which fell pleasantly on the Professor's ear. But the words—he was not so sure that he liked the words.
"I am not so old," he said, the deep furrow which dinted downwards between his thick eyebrows smoothing itself out as he looked, or rather peered at her with his short-sighted blue eyes; "my mother is active still. I long for you to see her; and I have two brothers, one of whom was thinking of marrying last year, but after all it came to nothing!"
"I should think so, indeed," said Claire suddenly.
"And pray why?" The Professor swung about and faced her. "What was there to prevent it?"
"The girl, of course!" said Claire, smiling simply.
"Umph!" said the Professor, and for half a mile spoke no more.
Then he nodded his head sagely, and communed to himself without speech.