en out for a good walk to stretch his desk-cramped legs, he was
singing in the garden bits of French songs and teasing June or watching
her skilful hunt for grasshoppers. He caroled gaily as he lay in the
shade:

"La fin du jour
Sauve les fleurs et rafraichit les belles;
Je veux, en galant troubadour,
Celebrer, au nom de l'amour,
Chanter, au nom des fleurs nouvelles
La fin du jour."

The message was given later, and as Mistress Gainor came in to his
mother's room she was a striking figure, with the beaver hat tied under
her chin and the long, dark-green pelisse cast open so as to reveal the
rich silk of her gown. It was not unfit for her age and was in entire
good taste, for as usual she was dressed for her role. Even her
goddaughter was slightly surprised, well as she knew her. This was not
the Gainor that Chovet knew, the woman who delighted to excite the too
easily irritated Dr. Rush, or to shock Mrs. Adams, the Vice-President's
wife, with well embroidered gossip about the Willing women and the high
play at Landsdowne, where Mrs. Penn presided, and Shippens, Chews, and
others came. This was another woman.

Margaret, curious, lingered behind Miss Wynne, and stood a moment, a
hand on the door. Miss Wynne came forward, and saying in French which
had amazed two generations, "_Bon jour, madame_," swept the entirely
graceful courtesy of a day when even the legs had fine manners, adding,
as the vicomtesse would have risen, "No, I beg of you."

"The settle is on the balcony," said the hostess, "and Cicero will come
up by and by and carry thee out. Not a step--not a step by thyself,"
she added, gently despotic.

As Miss Wynne passed by, the girl saw her courtesy, and, closing the
door, said to herself, "I think I could do it," and fell to courtesying
on the broad landing. "I should like to do that for Friend Nicholas
Waln," and gaily laughing, she went out and down the garden to deliver
her message to the young vicomte.

Neither man, woman nor the French tongue dismayed Mistress Wynne.
"_C'etait un long calembourg_, my son," the vicomtesse said later--"a
long conundrum, a long charade of words to represent _le bon Dieu_ knows
what. Ah, a tonic, truly. I was amused as I am not often." In fact, she
was rarely receptively humorous and never productively so. Now she spoke
slowly, in order to be understood, comprehending the big woman and
knowing her at once for a lady of he