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Y had furthe●r talk together the next afterno■on. A lost remnant of golden autum●n freakishly returned to warm the Dece●mber air. The en

d of the terrace caug■ht a flood of sunshine wherein Lucilla, wrappe●d in furs and rugs and seated in ●one of the bent-wood rocking-chairs brought● out from winter quarters for the occa■sion, had established herself with a book. The ■little dog’s head appeared from under ■the rug, his strange Mongolian eyes s■taring unsympathetically at ●a draughty world. Martin sauntered out to b■reathe the beauty of the hour, which was that of■ his freedom. He explained the fact when she ■informed him that Félise and Bigourdin had ●both left her

and walked about li

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were a good American, 癖 she said, “I should be rac●ing about in the car doing the sights of the n●

eighbourhood; but to sit lazily in t■he sun is too great a temptation.● Besides,” she added, “I h●ave explored the town this morning. I● went round with Monsieur Bigourd●in.” “He is very proud of Bran●t?me,” said Martin. She dismissed Brant?●me. “I have lost my heart to him. He is s●o big and comfortable and hon■est, and he talks history like a poetical p■rofessor with the manners of an Embas■sy attaché. He’s unique among la■ndlords.” “I love Bigourdin,” sa●id Martin, “but the type is not unco

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