"Human," my father sighed, and his tail swished. "You are expecting too much of your beloved, Etienne. Even a woman of the finest character may be dismayed in this situation." "But my mother--" "Your mother was an exception, a changeling of the Fairies. You must not look for your mother's soul in Joanna's eyes." He jumped from his chair, and came towards me, resting his paw upon my knee. "I am glad you have not spoken of me, Etienne. Now you must keep your silence forever." I was shocked. I reached down and touched my father's silky fur, saddened by the look of his age in his gray, gold-flecked eyes, and by the tinge of yellow in his white coat. "No, _mon purr_," I said. "Joanna must know the truth. Joanna must know how proud I am to be the son of Edwarde Dauphin." "Then you will lose her." "Never! That cannot happen!" My father walked stiffly to the fireplace, staring into the gray ashes. "Ring for Francois," he said. "Let him build the fire. I am cold, Etienne." I walked to the cord and pulled it. My father turned to me and said: "You must wait, my son. At dinner this evening, perhaps. Do not speak of me until then." "Very well, father." When I left the library, I encountered Joanna at the head of the stairway, and she spoke to me excitedly. "Oh, Etienne! What a _beautiful_ old house. I know I will love it! May we see the rest?" "Of course," I said. "You look troubled. Is something wrong?" "No, no. I was thinking how lovely you are." We embraced, and her warm full body against mine confirmed my conviction that we should never be parted. She put her arm in mine, and we strolled through the great rooms of the house. She was ecstatic at their size and elegance, exclaiming over the carpeting, the gnarled furniture, the ancient silver and pewter, the gallery of family paintings. When she came upon an early portrait of my mother, her eyes misted. "She was lovely," Joanna said. "Like a princess! And what of your father? Is there no portrait of him?" "No," I said hurriedly. "No portrait." I had spoken my first lie to Joanna, for there was a painting, half-completed, which my mother had begun in the last year of her life. It was a whispering little watercolor, and Joanna discovered it to my consternation. "What a magnificent cat!" she said. "Was it a pet?" "It is Dauphin," I said nervously. She laughed. "He has your eyes, Etienne." "Joanna, I must tell you something--" "And this ferocious gentleman with the moustaches? Who is he?" "My grandfather. Joanna, you must listen--" Francois, who had been following our inspection tour at shadow's-length, interrupted. I suspected that his timing was no mere coincidence. "We will be serving dinner at seven-thirty," he said. "If the lady would care to dress--" "Of course," Joanna said. "Will you excuse me, Etienne?" I bowed to her, and she was gone.