They engaged in this enterprise, and the fête developed itself on the lines of half a dozen red paper lanterns hung about in the trees, and of several glasses of _sirop_ carried on a tray by the stout-armed Célestine. As the occasion deepened to its climax I went out into the garden, where M. Pigeonneau was master of ceremonies. “But where are those charming young ladies,” he cried, “Mees Roque and the new-comer, l’aimable transfuge? Their absence has been remarked and they’re wanting to the brilliancy of the scene. Voyez, I have selected a glass of syrup—a generous glass—for Mees Roque, and I advise you, my young friend, if you wish to make a good impression, to put aside one which you may offer to the other young lady. What’s her name? Mees Cheurche? I see; it’s a singular name. Ca veut dire ‘église,’ n’est-ce-pas? Voilà, a church where I’d willingly worship!” Mr. Ruck presently came out of the salon, having concluded his interview with the elder of the pair. Through the open window I saw that accomplished woman seated under the lamp with her German octavo, while Mrs. Ruck, established empty-handed in an armchair near her, fairly glowered at her for fascination. “Well, I told you she’d know what I want,” he promptly observed to me. “She says I want to go right up to Appenzell, wherever that is; that I want to drink whey and live in a high latitude—what did she call it?—a high altitude. She seemed to think we ought to leave for Appenzell to-morrow; she’d got it all fixed. She says this ain’t a high enough lat—a high enough altitude. And she says I mustn’t go too high either; that would be just as bad; she seems to know just the right figure. She says she’ll give me a list of the hotels where we must stop on the way to Appenzell. I asked her if she didn’t want to go with us, but she says she’d rather sit still and read. I guess she’s a big reader.” The daughter of this devotee now reappeared, in company with Miss Ruck, with whom she had been strolling through the outlying parts of the garden; and that young lady noted with interest the red paper lanterns. “Good gracious,” she inquired, “are they trying to stick the flower-pots into the trees?” “It’s an illumination in honour of our arrival,” her companion returned. “It’s a triumph over Madame Chamousset.” “Meanwhile, at the Pension Chamousset,” I ventured to suggest, “they’ve put out their lights—they’re sitting in darkness and lamenting your departure.” She smiled at me—she was standing in the light that came from the house. M. Pigeonneau meanwhile, who had awaited his chance, advanced to Miss Ruck with his glass of syrup. “I’ve kept it for you, mademoiselle,” he said; “I’ve jealously guarded it. It’s very delicious!” Miss Ruck looked at him and his syrup without making any motion to take the glass. “Well, I guess it’s sour,” she dropped with a small shake of her head.