George said nothing. God forbid that he should tell her, even by a look, that she and her mother were of a caste different from his own. But he was bored to the soul by the difference; he was tired of her ignorances, which she showed every minute, of her ghastly, unclean knowledges--which she never showed. They came into the courtyard of the Chateau de la Motte, the ancient castle of the Breton dukes, which is now an inn. The red sunset flamed up behind the sad little town and its gray old houses and spires massed on the hill, and the black river creeping by. George's eyes kindled at the sombre picture. "In this very court," he said, "Constance stood when she summoned the States of Brittany to save her boy Arthur from King John." "Oh, yes, you have read of it to me in your Shakespeare. It is one of his unpleasant stories. Come, Bebe. It grows damp." As she climbed the stone stairway with the child, Colette lingered to gossip with the portier. "Poor lady! You will adore her! She is one of us. But she makes of that bete Anglais and the ugly child, saints and gods!" When George presently came up to their bare little room, Lisa was singing softly, as she rocked Jacques to sleep. "Can't you sing the boy something a bit more cheerful?" he said. "You used to know some jolly catches from the music halls." "Catches for HIM?" with a frightened look at the child's shut eyes. "The 'Adeste Fideles' is moral, but it is not a merry air. You sing it morning, noon, and night," he grumbled. "Yes," she whispered, laying the child in its crib. "One never knows how much HE understands, and he may remember, I thought. Some day when he is a great boy, he may hear it and he'll think, 'My mother sang that hymn. She must have been a good woman!'" "Nonsense, Lisa," said George kindly. "You'll teach him every day, while he is growing to be a great boy, that you are a good woman." She said nothing, but stood on the other side of the crib looking at him. "Well, what is it?" said George uneasily. "You look at me as if somebody were dragging you away from me." She laughed. "What ridiculous fancies you have!" She came behind him and, drawing his head back, kissed him on the forehead. "Oh, you poor, foolish boy!" she said. Lisa sat down to her work, which was the making of garments for Jacques out of her own gowns. She was an expert needlewoman, and had already a pile of fantastic kilts of cloth and velvet. "Enough to last until he is ten years old," George said contemptuously. "And you will not leave a gown for yourself." "There will be all I shall need," she said. He turned up the lamp and opened Clara's letter.