Of course, Tatiana, ever since her advent there as a bride, had made herself idolized--not so easy a task in the land of the apple-orchards, for the people there do not wear their hearts as a sleeve-ornament. Her frank, boyish ways interwoven with crystal-pure high breeding, her complete fearlessness at sea and ashore, her prowess on horseback (they are mighty horse-breeders in Normandy) filled them with admiration; and the then mayor of the neighboring little town--who invariably pulled off his tasseled _bonnet-de-coton_ when she met him in the exercise of his functions and apologized for wearing a tri-colored scarf about his vast middle--had once been heard to remark: “That Duchess isn’t a foreigner, nor a stranger--not a bit--no, she is a thoroughbred _Normande_, born farther north than we are, that’s all!” This, for a wonder, perfectly straight and outspoken exposé of feeling, had won general and popular approval. Tatiana was accepted as a _Normande_ from farther north, _V’là tout!_ And so it had remained ever since. Piotr, delighted to be back on the sea edge, was daily clamoring for his “little darling Malou”; and one fine evening Salvières, who had spent a few days at Plenhöel to confer with Régis about that idiotic elopement of Laurence, came home with him and the “Gamin.” Piotr’s explosions of joy at finding her again were so exuberant as to very nearly exhaust even Tatiana’s long-suffering stock of patience with him. In her heart she was thinking: “It is not a child’s enthusiasm; it is a real, _bona-fide_ passion. What a pity Basil is not and never will be free!”