“Yes, I am too active to spend all my days at Villa Rose. My uncle is always afraid that I shall walk on his flower beds. He lives in a constant state of alarm, and sighs with relief when he sees the last of me. But the household at La Chênaie is so interesting.” “Really?” said Marcel, trying rather ineffectively not to appear interested. “It affords a thousand different ways of killing time--which is the enemy it is most in dread of--and in spite of it all it does sometimes experience what it is to have nothing to do. Madame Dulaurens bustles about, sends out her invitations, writes menus or accounts of her At Homes for the society papers. M. Dulaurens, the ceremonious and punctilious, arranges his library, which nobody is ever allowed to disturb, greets his wife’s guests, agrees with his wife’s slightest word and by his attitude of adoration constantly begs forgiveness of this thoroughly aristocratic person for his plebeian origin. Young Clément runs over dogs in his car. Happily he has done nothing worse until the present time.” “And Alice?” Madame Guibert asked innocently. The young man’s answer was full of tact. “Mademoiselle Alice is waiting for something to happen. It cannot fail to be pleasant for her.” “But do you see only the Dulaurenses at La Chênaie?” said Marcel. “They have their guests too. There is Madame Orlandi, for instance. Madame Orlandi has come back to the town of her birth to mourn her lost beauty rather than her husband. She lived in Florence when she was young and lovely. When her youth departed she retired from society and from Italy. The loss of her fortune made that necessary. She has had all the mirrors taken away from her rooms; they are all in her daughter’s room, it is said. She has none but young and pretty maids and is covered with jewels as thick as a reliquary. She spends the day in taking out and putting back these witnesses of her former triumphs. However, she manages to find time to look after an awful pug called Pistache, of which she is much fonder than of her daughter.” “And now we have come to the point,” said Marcel, “after a long way round!” “Mademoiselle Isabelle is charming. She knows that she owes it to her beauty to marry a millionaire. She will not fail to do that. Her mother and I are both encouraging her.” “Oh dear!” cried Madame Guibert, who had stopped her work. “She needs no encouragement,” continued the young man. “These Italians are very practical. And then Mademoiselle De Songeon, whose thin, aristocratic, old-maid’s face is for ever to be seen at La Chênaie, is not the least curious of the lot.” “I know her,” interrupted Madame Guibert. “She is a saint. She looks after all kinds of charitable works and spends a precious life in religious meetings and going on pilgrimages.”