The noise of the opening of the door drew their attention from the window. Two figures were advancing towards them—a short, round, tubby man of fifty-five, red-faced, bald, with bright grey eyes, which seemed to be continually dancing away from meeting the eyes of any other human being. Behind him came a slim young man, dark and grave. For all the difference in their colouring, it was clear that they were father and son: their eyes were set so close together. The son seemed to have inherited, along with her black eyes, his mother’s nose, thin and aquiline; the nose of the father started thin from the brow, but ended in a scarlet bulb eloquent of an exhaustive acquaintance with the vintages of the world. Germaine rose, looking at them with an air of some surprise and uncertainty: these were not her friends, the Du Buits. The elder man, advancing with a smiling bonhomie, bowed, and said in an adenoid voice, ingratiating of tone: “I’m M. Charolais, young ladies—M. Charolais—retired brewer—chevalier of the Legion of Honour—landowner at Rennes. Let me introduce my son.” The young man bowed awkwardly. “We came from Rennes this morning, and we lunched at Kerlor’s farm.” “Shall I order tea for them?” whispered Sonia. “Gracious, no!” said Germaine sharply under her breath; then, louder, she said to M. Charolais, “And what is your object in calling?” “We asked to see your father,” said M. Charolais, smiling with broad amiability, while his eyes danced across her face, avoiding any meeting with hers. “The footman told us that M. Gournay-Martin was out, but that his daughter was at home. And we were unable, quite unable, to deny ourselves the pleasure of meeting you.” With that he sat down; and his son followed his example. Sonia and Germaine, taken aback, looked at one another in some perplexity. “What a fine château, papa!” said the young man. “Yes, my boy; it’s a very fine château,” said M. Charolais, looking round the hall with appreciative but greedy eyes. There was a pause. “It’s a very fine château, young ladies,” said M. Charolais. “Yes; but excuse me, what is it you have called about?” said Germaine. M. Charolais crossed his legs, leant back in his chair, thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and said: “Well, we’ve come about the advertisement we saw in the RENNES ADVERTISER, that M. Gournay-Martin wanted to get rid of a motor-car; and my son is always saying to me, ‘I should like a motor-car which rushes the hills, papa.’ He means a sixty horse-power.” “We’ve got a sixty horse-power; but it’s not for sale. My father is even using it himself to-day,” said Germaine. “Perhaps it’s the car we saw in the stable-yard,” said M. Charolais. “No; that’s a thirty to forty horse-power. It belongs to me. But if your son really loves rushing hills, as you say, we have a hundred horse-power car which my father wants to get rid of. Wait; where’s the photograph of it, Sonia? It ought to be here somewhere.”