"How may I promise for the lady?" laughed Schmidt as they moved through the fruit-trees. "Ah, here is the basket of roses for the Frau Von Courval."
A singular person, thought the vicomte, but surely a gentleman.
Madame de Courval, tired of looking for a home, had resolved to give no trouble to this kindly household and to accept their hours—the breakfast at seven, the noonday dinner, the supper at six. She was already dressed when she heard the step outside of her door, and looking up from her Bible, called "Entrez, my son. Ah, roses, roses! Did you gather them?"
"No; they are for you, with the compliments of our fellow-lodger, a German, I believe, Mr. Schmidt; another most strange person in this strange land. He speaks English well, but, mon Dieu, of the oddest. A well-bred man, I am sure; you will like him."
"I do not know, and what matters it? I like very few people, as you know, René; but the place does appear to be clean and neat. That must suffice."
He knew well enough that she liked few people. "Are you ready, maman? Shall we go down?"
"Yes, I am ready. This seems to me a haven of rest, René—a haven of rest, after that cruel sea."
"It so seems to me, maman; and these good Quakers. They tutoyer every one—every one. You must try to learn English. I shall give you lessons, and there is a note from Mr. Wynne, asking me to call at eleven. And one word more, maman—"
"Well, my son?"
"You bade me put aside the past. I shall do so; but you—can not you also do the same? It will be hard, for you made me make it harder."