was untouched by displeasure. Her smile, on the contrary, betrayed delight, a delight that wreathed itself in graciousness. 'I shall be most charmed to receive you. Come any day you please and you will find me waiting for you with a cup of tea; and it will be a cup of real tea, and at the proper time,' she smiled, 'though I, myself, from long seclusion, have lapsed into the habits of the province. I dine at midday, sup at dusk, and go to bed with the birds;—a sad existence, is it not, for a Parisienne?'
'That's all right, then,' said Graham. 'We'll come at tea-time. And where are we to come? And whom are we to ask for?'
'You must ask for the comtesse de Lamouderie; at the Manoir;—anyone will direct you.—It is down there I live;—beyond Buissac; beyond the cemetery; in the midst of the chestnut forest. A road leads up from the grande route. I am afraid it is in terrible disrepair; your car could never attempt it. But it is not far. You could come on foot.'
'If you can get as far as this—I think we certainly can!' laughed Graham. 'And what about your Do you feel it safe to wander about the country by yourself?' He had risen in farewell and doffed his hat.
'Oh, I!' the old lady laughed bitterly. 'There are no dangers where I am concerned. I ceased to be a woman many years ago.'
This, to Graham's Anglo-Saxon ears, was a piece of information as unexpected as it was unnecessary. He
