varied anticipations, Mrs. Wysong-Lord, Miss Presby, the Rev. A. Z. Van Zeim and the icily beautiful Margot journeyed from Paris. In a second-class compartment rode many maids, and a King Charles spaniel; in the baggage-car rose a tumulus of luggage that seemed to defy transportation.
The entire party was irreproachable, particularly Mrs. Wysong-Lord, gowned in a smart traveling suit of gray, her beautiful white hair almost concealed by the many veils depending from her eminently appropriate toque. Miss Margot was immaculate. Her rebellious hair was subdued in neat coils. Her hat was properly girlish, her gown of blue severely plain, though it bore the mark of Paquin.
The train slowed down, a tiny station came into view, the guard opened the compartment doors, and the party descended rapidly, but without hurry. The maids appeared, laden with hand baggage; a thunderous thumping at the rear of the platform testified to the disintegration of the tumulus in the baggage-car. A moment later, and the order of the guard, “Gentlemen the voyageurs into carriages!” rang out. Compartment locks clicked, a horn sounded, and the Wysong-Lords stood alone upon the platform. Yet not alone; a bowing menial in livery respectfully called their attention to the unimportant fact that he was a footman, doubtless in their service, and, with a touch to his hat, led the way behind the gare, where a maroon station-omnibus of American pattern was drawn up. Behind it a second conveyance awaited the servants, while a flat-car on high wheels fairly yawned for trunks.
All this Mrs. Wysong-Lord accepted at a glance, with no sign of either surprise or commendation.
The party drove off through a hamlet of low, stone houses, down a dusty road lined with poplars, then to the right through a smiling and beautiful valley—ancient trees, broad meadows, a silver river of rapid flow, bending and winding in its erratic course seaward, superb vistas, hills crowned with verdure, through which here and there turrets and crenelated towers pricked the sky.
“What a pleasing landscape!” approved Mrs. Wysong-Lord.
“Lovely!” said Margot.
“Charming!” sighed Miss Presby.
“And what excellent roads!” added the chaplain.
The carriage turned through a high brick-and-marble gateway, and bowled smoothly down a wide avenue, shadowed by huge, interlacing trees. There was a glimpse of lawn, a flash from the placid surface of the most artificial of artificial lakes, before high lilac hedges shut off the view. The horses trotted smartly around a formal parterre, and stopped before the exquisitely carved doors of La Bonbonnière.
An hour or so later, while the other members of the household were resting from the fatigue of travel, Margot, in a white tea-gown, looking like a self-satisfied angel, made a tour of inspection. The hallway, with its wooden panels of saffron hue and delicate polish, delighted her. The candle brackets and the ormolu newel-post were finer than any she had ever seen. Even the knob of the salon door was a gem of workmanship. She turned it, and stepped softly into the room.
Yes, there were the Boucher panels—groups of laughing cherubs, weeping cherubs, even quarreling cherubs, each instinct with life and love. The walls swarmed with them, the ceiling was a-swirl with their flying forms, the whole coquettish room was vaguely astir. One was conscious of inaudible laughter. On the mantel, upheld by two delicately modeled dryads, stood a gold Cupid spinning a ball of blue enamel, which bore, in golden outlines, the world's familiar continents—the equator was a band upon which the hours shone in white numbers. The mechanism that had revolved the equator had long ago ceased to move, but Cupid appeared ready to make the world go round for all time.
The dimple in Margot's chin suddenly asserted itself, a gleam of joy lighted her somber eyes. She gazed, laughed aloud and clapped her hands. With a gurgle of sheer enjoyment, she drew her hand lightly over the azure silk of the hangings, and sniffed at a bowl of roses on the card-table. She passed to the adjoining apartment.
“Oh,” she said, aloud, “you love of a room!” All was yellow, embroidered satin, except what was shining Chinese porcelain, in panels long and narrow, in plates let into the walls, in vases on the mantels. A delightful Louis XV. notion of Chinese luxury, contrasting sharply with the view from the long French windows—terraces a-quiver with nodding flowers, descending in soft succession to the borders of a fountain, where three marble mermaids disported themselves with the mincing manners of court dames.
“Oh,” said Margot, “you dear, sweet duck of a house!—you delicious delight of a garden!”