So Adrienne went. The Bouveries lived in a villa just outside the village. His brass plate was on the door, and his office adjoined the street, but at the back they had a very pretty and rather pretentious garden, with rose pergolas, fountains and masses of bright-coloured flower beds. The doctor's wife, some young people from Orleans, the Curé, and two nieces from Tours who were staying in the house, formed the party. Though they sat in the garden and played tennis, Madame Bouverie could not resist showing Adrienne her house, which was overcrowded with furniture and treasures of all sorts. "It is rather full," she apologized; "but we shall be soon leaving it for a bigger house. My husband and I have a collecting mania; we pick up things all over the world." If Adrienne had only known, nearly the whole of the old china, and glass, and many pictures had come from the Château, which indeed had proved a treasure-house to the collectors. The conversation was entirely in French, but Adrienne was now able to understand and take part in it. She played tennis, and made herself as agreeable as she could to everyone. The doctor's wife was a very talkative little soul. Adrienne felt that, as a doctor's wife, she lacked discretion. Her husband's patients were the source of the greatest interest to her. "Adolphe is so busy, so popular! All the great people in the neighbourhood call for him. The Marquise of Pompagny was 'phoning in distraction yesterday; I could not appease her. Adolphe was with a Mr. Preston, a countryman of yours, Mademoiselle. He is very dangerously ill of a fever following a wound. He is not too abstemious, and it tells, it tells when sickness comes. I promised the Marquise my husband should come immediately he returned—I asked if it were herself or her children, and then—imagine it—her pet Pom was indisposed, and it was urgent—imperative that Adolphe should leave the sick Englishman, and attend instantaneously upon the little darling! When he returned, I gave him the message. He snorted! He rebelled, but he went post-haste, with no bit of lunch, no rest, for we cannot afford to quarrel with the Marquise!" "How is Mr. Preston?" Adrienne asked as soon as she could get in a word. "Dying, Mademoiselle, dying, my husband says. They live not very far from this village, but he came in very delicate health, and they do not like visitors. I went up to see them, but was not admitted. But then they are English, so—a thousand apologies, Mademoiselle. I forget I am speaking to an Englishwoman. Still you know some of your country people are reserved—haughty—as is this sister of the invalid." "I feel sorry for her," said Adrienne. "I did not know he was so ill." "Do you know them?" "No, I met the sister. If you remember I summoned your husband when the accident happened."