ected, and they started at nine in the morning in a
large traveling landau with six places, drawn by four horses with
postilions. They were going to lunch at the Pavilion Henri-Quatre at
Saint Germain. Pretty-boy had asked to be the only man of the party, for
he could not endure the presence of the Marquis de Cazolles. But at the
last moment it was decided that the Count de Latour-Yvelin should be
called for on the way. He had been told the day before.

The carriage passed up the Avenue of the Champs Elysees at a swinging
trot, and then traversed the Bois de Boulogne. It was splendid summer
weather, not too warm. The swallows traced long sweeping lines across
the blue sky that one fancied one could still see after they had passed.
The three ladies occupied the back seat, the mother between her
daughters, and the men were with their backs to the horses, Walter
between the two guests. They crossed the Seine, skirted Mount Valerien,
and gained Bougival in order to follow the river as far as Le Pecq.

The Count de Latour-Yvelin, a man advancing towards middle-age, with
long, light whiskers, gazed tenderly at Rose. They had been engaged for
a month. George, who was very pale, often looked at Susan, who was pale
too. Their eyes often met, and seemed to concert something, to
understand one another, to secretly exchange a thought, and then to flee
one another. Madame Walter was quiet and happy.

The lunch was a long one. Before starting back for Paris, George
suggested a turn on the terrace. They stopped at first to admire the
view. All ranged themselves in a line along the parapet, and went into
ecstasies over the far-stretching horizon. The Seine at the foot of a
long hill flowed towards Maisons-Lafitte like an immense serpent
stretched in the herbage. To the right, on the summit of the slope, the
aqueduct of Marly showed against the skyline its outline, resembling
that of a gigantic, long-legged caterpillar, and Marly was lost beneath
it in a thick cluster of trees. On the immense plain extending in front
of them, villages could be seen dotted. The pieces of water at Le
Vesinet showed like clear spots amidst the thin foliage of the little
forest. To the left, away in the distance, the pointed steeple of
Sastrouville could be seen.

Walter said: "Such a panorama is not to be found anywhere in the world.
There is not one to match it in Switzerland."

Then they began to walk on gently, to have a stroll and enjoy the
prospe