'No; my father's dead now and my brother couldn't keep it up and sold it,' said Jill in a matter-of-fact tone. 'I haven't hunted for three years. I do get a mount now and then—when I go back.'
'It was I who put an end to it all for her,' said Graham. 'She'd be living in the country now and hunting and dancing with the noblesse if it weren't for me. You have before you an English romance. The beautiful young English heroine who falls in love with the needy painter and follows him to the studio where the milk is put outside on the stair in the morning. It's quite true, you know,' and Graham glanced affectionately at Jill as he spoke. 'She made as bad a match as possible in marrying me.'
The old lady gazed upon them, perplexed and rapturous. 'It was a mariage d'amour. And you have remained in love for five years. Do you realize that it is a rare feat that you have accomplished?'
'We find it a most normal occupation,' smiled Graham. 'But to change the subject—which Jill finds rather embarrassing—tell us about this room where you say you don't belong, but where you make such a subject for a painter. What sort of people do belong, then? Who put it all together and who lived here?'
'People of no consequence at all,' said Madame de Lamouderie, looking about her with a rather grim expression. 'A family called, tout simplement, Jacquard. A few generations back they were nothing but local peasants and they rose to be traders in Bordeaux.'
'But great French marshals began as plebeians
