THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
let you say another word; you shan’t ridicule my young people. Stop it, I say!”
“Oh, but wait, madame—please hear me out—I have not finished. These pewter dishes must also come into service”—and he caught up the two bowls from the tops of the great andirons behind him—“these we will fill with spices steeped in mulled wine, which, as I tried to say, we will send to their Royal Highnesses’ bedroom—after they are tucked away in”
“No!—no!—we will do nothing of the kind; everything shall be just the other way. There will be no horses, no cabriolet, no trumpeters, no garters except the ones the dear child will wear, and no mulled wine. We will all go on foot, and the only music will be the organ in the old church, and the breakfast will be here, in our beloved Marmouset, and the punch will be mixed by Monsieur Brierley in the Ming bowl I brought, and Monsieur Louis will serve it, and then they will both go to their own home and sleep in their own bed. So there! Not another word, for it is all settled and finished”—and one of her rippling, joyous laughs—a whole dove-cote mingled with any number of silver bells—quivered through the room.
Lemois joined in the merriment, shrugging
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