Now this all-play-and-no-work existence had come to an end, much to their regret, but they had many things of a pleasant kind to look forward to, including the coming months by the Breton sea. And, after all, reflected Régis, here was his lovely daughter still unwed at her majority. She had calmly and persistently declined all offers (and these had been many), arguing that she could never find a man worthy of comparison with her father and that she was too happy as she was to admit of any change. In all his knowledge, a woman of his race had never remained single after seventeen, and he suddenly drew his hand across his forehead as if to dismiss an unfortunate thought buzzing around his brain. After a time he rose and strode to one of the windows giving on the garden. The weather was admirable, the sky of indescribable purity, the huge lindens skirting the walls were loaded down with little tufts of perfume, and the grass, still empearled with dew where the sun did not strike, was enameled with scores of little golden planets--dandelions defended by the “Gamin,” who loved them, from the gardener’s spudder--and further embellished by a flight of familiar doves who lived in an ivy-garlanded cote near by. On the middle of the lawn he saw the “Gamin” holding a flat basket from which Piotr--a charming little figure in his _mujik_ costume, imitated in white drill, his tiny tall boots and jaunty cap--snatched handfuls of crumbs for the hungry birds. Moodily Régis took in the pretty scene. Why was not this baby his grandson? Why--now that he thought of it--had Basil not married Marguerite instead of that infernal _poseuse_ of a Laurence? He a grandfather! The idea made him laugh--he felt so absurdly young--and he stepped back to glance at himself in a mirror! Slender and active as at twenty, with not one line of white to pale his corn-colored pate, he gave no idea of grandfatherly dignity. But, never mind, it would have been pleasant, all the same, and he shrugged an impatient shoulder. A shriek of delight from Piotr on the lawn brought him quickly again to the open window. The child was running toward the stooping doves, clapping his pudgy hands to frighten them away from their breakfast, and Marguerite on silent feet was skimming across the turf after him. “Naughty, naughty Piotr!” she cried, catching him before much harm was done, and bearing him away from the whirling flock. “You must not give sorrow to the birds!” (“_faire du chagrin aux petits oiseaux._”) Kicking and struggling vigorously, Piotr heeded not at all the wise admonition. “Naughty Malou!” he yelled, vainly trying to break her hold. “Naughty Malou, let Piotr go!” Marguerite’s laughter rippled under the drooping linden branches, in her delight at the pretty perversion of her name. “No! No!” she panted, for the boy was heavy, “Malou will not let Piotr go! What would your papa say if he saw you frightening my birds, Piotr? What do you think? Eh?”