“At what he must think the folly of—of my quest for pleasure. He is, you know, my countryman, and the happy-starred among us find content and joy in the very cheapest, simplest entertainment. The cost of—of those flowers alone, perhaps he calculates at this moment, would suffice to keep his mother a fortnight.” “_Mon Dieu_! has he got a mother?” said the lady airily. “To look at that rugged form and the square hard countenance, I would have thought he had been chipped from granite. But I hope the dear mother is not really hungry. Do you know her?” “I am privileged to read her letters once a week,” said the Pompadour. “That must be most amusing.” “It is at least instructive; she has her own ideas of the life of fashion, and the character of le Pompadour.” “Does she laugh, too, internally?” “I fancy not,” said the Pompadour reflectively; “I think it is more likely that she prays.” “How droll!” said the saintly lips. “But I suppose it is the best that one can do when one is poor. If I were so rich as you, and derived so much edification from her epistles, I should give her money.” “More than she has from her son, who loves her, would make her miserable. Sixty years of strict frugality spoil the constitution for excess, and two guineas a week would make her as uncomfortable as one of Joseph’s dinners would.” “You, at least, do not show appreciation of your Joseph’s dinners; you seem content with meagre soup and dry biscuits; one might think you were a physician, and we the subjects of experiment in indigestion.” Madame de Langan slept assuredly; the egrets on her hat bobbed most grotesquely; now and then she gurgled. The company had scattered, some to see the old home of the exiled James of England, some to walk on the forest fringes. “Mathilde,” said the Pompadour in a whisper, taking her hand in his and bending towards her with a look of burning concentration. “If I—if I were poor, could you love me?” She started, bit her lip at a certain gaucherie in the question, but did not withdraw her hand. “I—I cannot say,” she stammered; “isn’t that a point for the little mother?” and she glanced at the sunshade hiding the ponderous sleeper. “I know! I know! I know!” said the Pompadour in a fury of impatience. “But this is our Scottish fashion; first I must know from you, and then I shall consult your mother. Meanwhile, do you love me?” “I have had no experience,” said the lady, not much embarrassed. “You have not told me yet if you love me, which is, I understand, the customary ritual.” “_Mon Dieu_!” said he in an excess of fervour, “I’m in a flame of passion and worship of you,” and he crushed unconsciously her fingers in his two strong hands. She winced. “_Oh_, _ce n’est pas gentil_,” she exclaimed, pulling away her hand. “You hurt me horribly.” Then she smiled up in his face, provocatively coquettish, whispering, “To-morrow,” for the other guests came trooping back upon the terrace.