river until we come to some quaint and exquisite inn where we are served in a riot of spring bloom. It is delightfully adventuring and Bobby is a perfect host. Now and then I say something about seeing the art-galleries and old churches, but Bobby won't have it. He says such things are bromidic—"For heaven's sake, Hildegarde, leave the sight-seeing to the poor souls who don't know any better." Then off we go to some jewel of a place where they make an omelette with an incomparable sauce, or cook little birds on a spit in front of a fire—and Bob buys great bunches of violets, and makes me tie my hair with a purple ribbon and not wear any hat, and calls me 'Violetta' and writes verses about me.
"Does all this sound silly? Well, perhaps it is. But it is gorgeously gay. And it goes to my head like wine. Daddy loves it, too. We are living very cheaply with a pair of old French aristocrats, who lost their money in the war, and lost their sons. Yet, in spite of the cheapness we are quite elegant, for the house has its lovely old furniture, long mirrors and little brocaded chairs, and gilt clocks. Aunt Anne is out a lot, she knows so many people. And Sally and her mother are shopping. So I have Daddy to myself. He seems as young as I, and I adore him, Crispin. I like the things he likes. He says I am part pagan, and part Puritan. That's why I understand both him and mother. Mother didn't understand . . . and so she was unhappy."
Crispin stopped there, "You see? Carew's got her."
"He talked that way once to Elizabeth," Aunt Olivia said, "and she listened and tried to learn his ways. But when he failed to keep faith with her, she turned
