There was a long silence in the room which was called my study.
"I think, mon ami," said my companion at length, "that there is another reason." "Yes," answered I, bluntly, "there is." I did not look round, but continued to watch Lucille in the garden.
The Vicomte sat in silence--waiting, no doubt, for a further explanation.

Failing to get this, he said, rather testily as I thought: "Is the reason in the garden, my friend, that your eyes are fixed there ?" "Yes, it is.

It is scolding the gardener.

And I think I am better away from the Hotel Clericy, Monsieur le Vicomte." The old man slowly rose and came to the window, standing behind me.
"Oh--la, la!" he muttered in his quaint way--an exclamation uncomplimentary to myself; for our neighbours across channel reserve the syllables exclusively for their disasters.
We looked down at Lucille, standing amid the chrysanthemums, lending to their pink and white bloom a face as fresh as any of the flowers.
"But it is a child, mon ami," said the Vicomte, with his tolerant smile.
"Yes--I ought to know better, I admit," answered I, rising and attending to the papers on the writing table, and I laughed without feeling very merry.

I sat down and began mechanically to work.