The dark girl jumped up and ran out into the hall. I remember wondering: “Is it because she wants to have him to herself first--or because she’s afraid of their being startled?” I wished myself out of the way, but she took no notice of me, and going straight to Jean flung her arms about him. I was behind him and could see her hands about his neck, and her brown fingers tightly locked. There wasn’t much doubt about those two.... The next minute she caught sight of me, and I was being rapidly tested by a pair of the finest eyes I ever saw--I don’t apply the term to their setting, though that was fine too, but to the look itself, a look at once warm and resolute, all-promising and all-penetrating. I really can’t do with fewer adjectives.... Réchamp explained me, and she was full of thanks and welcome; not excessive, but--well, I don’t know--eloquent! She gave every intonation all it could carry, and without the least emphasis: that’s the wonder. She went back to “prepare” the parents, as they say in melodrama; and in a minute or two we followed. What struck me first was that these insignificant and inadequate people had the command of the grand gesture--had _la ligne_. The mother had laid aside her knitting--_not_ dropped it--and stood waiting with open arms. But even in clasping her son she seemed to include me in her welcome. I don’t know how to describe it; but they never let me feel I was in the way. I suppose that’s part of what you call distinction; knowing instinctively how to deal with unusual moments. All the while, I was looking about me at the fine secure old room, in which nothing seemed altered or disturbed, the portraits smiling from the walls, the servants beaming in the doorway--and wondering how such things could have survived in the trail of death and havoc we had been following. The same thought had evidently struck Jean, for he dropped his sister’s hand and turned to gaze about him too. “Then nothing’s touched--nothing? I don’t understand,” he stammered. Monsieur de Réchamp raised himself majestically from his chair, crossed the room and lifted Yvonne Malo’s hand to his lips. “Nothing is touched--thanks to this hand and this brain.” Madame de Réchamp was shining on her son through tears. “Ah, yes--we owe it all to Yvonne.” “All, all! Grandmamma will tell you!” Simone chimed in; and Yvonne, brushing aside their praise with a half-impatient laugh, said to her betrothed: “But your grandmother! You must go up to her at once.” A wonderful specimen, that grandmother: I was taken to see her after dinner. She sat by the fire in a bare panelled bedroom, bolt upright in an armchair with ears, a knitting-table at her elbow with a shaded candle on it.