"Come with us," Sylvia suggested. "We're going to France. Lock up your house, give the key to the copper on the beat, put on your gingham gown, and come with us, you old sea-elephant." "Come with you?" Mrs. Gainsborough gasped. "But there, why shouldn't I?" "No reason at all." "Why, then I will. I believe the captain would have liked me to get a bit of a blow." "Anything to declare?" the customs official asked at Boulogne. "I declare I'm enjoying myself," said Mrs. Gainsborough, looking round her and beaming at France. CHAPTER X When she once more landed on French soil, Sylvia, actuated by a classic piety, desired to visit her mother's grave. She would have preferred to go to Lille by herself, for she lacked the showman's instinct; but her companions were so horrified at the notion of being left to themselves in Paris until she rejoined them, that in the end she had to take them with her. The sight of the old house and the faces of some of the older women in the _quartier_ conjured up the past so vividly for Sylvia that she could not bring herself to make any inquiries about the rest of her family. It seemed as if she must once more look at Lille from her mother's point of view and maintain the sanctity of private life against the curiosity or criticism of neighbors. She did not wish to hear the details of her father's misdoing or perhaps be condoled with over Valentine. The simplest procedure would have been to lay a wreath upon the grave and depart again. This she might have done if Mrs. Gainsborough's genial inquisitiveness about her relatives had not roused in herself a wish to learn something about them. She decided to visit her eldest sister in Brussels, leaving it to chance if she still lived where Sylvia had visited her twelve years ago. "Brussels," said Mrs. Gainsborough. "Well, that sounds familiar, anyway. Though I suppose the sprout-gardens are all built over nowadays. Ah dear!" The building over of her father's nursery-garden and of many other green spots she had known in London always drew a tear from Mrs. Gainsborough, who was inclined to attribute most of human sorrow to the utilitarian schemes of builders. "Yes, they found the Belgian hares ate up all the sprouts," Sylvia said. "And talking of hair," she went on, "what's the matter with yours?" "Ah, well, there! Now I meant to say nothing about it. But I've left me mahogany wash at home. There's a calamity!" "You'd better come out with me and buy another bottle," Sylvia advised. "You'll never get one here," said Mrs. Gainsborough. "This is a wash, not a dye, you must remember. It doesn't tint the hair; it just brings up the color and gives it a nice gloss." "If that's all it does, I'll lend you my shoe-polish. Go along, you wicked old fraud, and don't talk to me about washes. I can see the white hairs coming out like stars."