Laura Richards
Honor Bright

CHAPTER XVI
THE APPLES OF ATALANTA

The day of the Race dawned clear and bright; as perfect a day as heart could desire. Long before the hour the guests began to arrive; fathers, mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, all in their best, all with shining faces of expectation. The Fête d’Atalante was Prize Day, Class Day, Commencement, all in one, at Pension Madeleine. The garden was in order; in saying that, one says a great deal. For a week past Margoton had been at work with rake, broom, trowel and shears; for a week the girls, in every spare moment, had diligently weeded the brick alleys, snipped off faded leaves and blossoms, tied up vines, etc., etc. The result was a perfection altogether dazzling, said Madame, making her final round of inspection. Let one but observe these bricks! They shone as if – but as if each one had been waxed.

“Parbleu!” said Margoton. “The reason of that, my faith? It is that they have been waxed, saving the honor of Madame.”

The strip of lawn on either side of the broad alley was covered with benches, which filled rapidly as the hour approached. Here was Stephanie’s family, her stout, comfortable father, with frock coat, and double chin; her thin, anxious little mother, whose bead-like eyes were already measuring the paces that must be run, and comparing her child’s legs with those of the other girls. Here were the Marquis and Marquise de la Tour de Provence, very high-nosed and aristocratic, also – it must be confessed – very vacuous in expression. Here was Madame Poirier, Vivette’s mother, in maroon cashmere with an eruption of shiny black buttons along every seam. These buttons had been fashionable some years ago, but were now no longer so, and the good lady had used them, as she fondly imagined, to produce an effect “altogether of gentility.” Here at one side, was a little group that caught the eye at once: a handsome lady, richly dressed, beside her a singularly beautiful girl. Mrs. Damian, entering the garden with Miss Folly, saw them, and made her way toward them at once.

“Desmonds!” she explained to Miss Folly. “I should know a Desmond if I met him in the desert of Sahara; this must be Mrs. Clifford. How do you do, Mrs. Clifford Desmond? I am Mrs. Damian. I came very near marrying your father-in-law a hundred years ago – or perhaps it was only fifty. Is this your elder daughter? I have seen the younger one; knew her for a Desmond across the Public Garden.”

“Is it possible that I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Damian?” cried the lady. “A most unexpected privilege! May I present my daughter Helena? Helena, my love, Mrs. Damian!” Mrs. Desmond spoke with great empressement. “It was my little Patricia you saw in the garden; my baby! She is a pupil here. Patricia, this way, darling! I wish to present you to Mrs. Damian.”

Patricia made her graceful reverence; greeted her mother civilly, though without enthusiasm, and turned to her sister.

“Hello, Imp! I’m as tall as you!”

“I believe you are, Pixie!” said Helena Desmond, known as Imperia to her friends and schoolmates. “Great weeds do grow apace, you know! I don’t believe you can wear the dress we have brought you from Paris. Who is the girl with red hair? She looks like a duck.”

“She speaks but to quack!” replied Patricia. “That is Honor Bright. She is going away – ”

Patricia stopped abruptly. To her amazement and disgust, something seemed to swell up in her throat, choking her; at the same time her eyes began to blur and smart.

“Good-by!” she said. “I must go!” and she fairly ran away.

Honor now came flying up to greet Mrs. Damian. She, like Patricia, was in her running dress, a simple white tunic, reaching just below the knee; her bright hair floated on her shoulders. Mrs. Damian surveyed her with evident pleasure.

“Mrs. Clifford Desmond, this is my little cousin!” she said. “Seymour Bright’s daughter. I am taking her home with me soon. Well, Honor, and do you expect to win the apples? Eh?”

“It is that I shall do my possible!” Honor had made her pretty courtesy to both ladies, and was casting shy, admiring glances at Helena. She spoke now carefully, anxious to have her English correct; and naturally fell into the mistake of over-carefulness. “It is Patricia, who runs bestly, my aunt; we strive, each as we can, in our manière. Ah!” she started, and her hands came together with a clasp. “Graciously will to excuse me, mesdames! I see – ”

She was gone; Mrs. Damian looked after her complacently.

“They call her ‘Oriole,’ I believe, or some such name. She certainly moves like a bird. Your daughter will have to do her possible, Mrs. Desmond, to win the race.”

“Pat’s legs are longer,” said Helena Desmond judicially, “but the little one has the pace. I shall put my money on her.”

Whither had Honor flown? To the garden gate, that opening from the kitchen garden, in which three figures now appeared. Two of them were tall, massive figures of women, resplendent in full Swiss costume, their broad, comely faces alight with pleasure: the third, that of a boy, slight and delicate, walking with crutches.

“Zitli! Gretli! Oh, I am so glad, so glad to see you! Oh, how angelic of you to come!”

“And we, then, my little mademoiselle!” cried Gretli, seizing the outstretched hands. “Are we glad, do you suppose? Eh, Zitli? Have we missed her, our little guest? Say then, thou!”

Zitli nodded emphatically.

“As one misses the sunlight!” he said. “We are happy to be here, mademoiselle. We come to see you win the apples – which behold!” he added, drawing a parcel from his pocket. “May I not show them, my Sister?”

“But no! certainly not!” Gretli shook her head vehemently. “I must take them at once to Madame. Well then,” seeing the disappointment in both faces, “it may be that a tiny peep – since after all it is Mademoiselle Honor who will finally possess them – But turn thy back, that no one else see!”

Shaking out their wide skirts, the sisters stood before Honor and Zitli, screening them effectively from sight. Eagerly Zitli opened the neat wooden box; eagerly Honor bent forward, to peep at the trophy, the three golden apples shining on their bed of green satin.

“But it is a jewel!” she cried. “Zitli, how beautiful! A queen might wear it.”

“No jewel, mademoiselle; wood simply, and gold leaf; but there are strokes in it, that I confess!”

Zitli spoke modestly, but his eyes shone; he was proud, as he well might be, of his work.

“Behold my Ladies, who approach!” cried Gretli. “Give me quickly the box, my little one! I will return to find thee a place, fear not!”

The sisters moved away, and the boy and girl were left together.

“Zitli,” cried Honor, “tell me quickly! How is everybody? How is Atli? And La Dumaine, and Séraphine, and Bimbo, and Moufflon, and Tell, and – ”

“Sapperli poppette!” cried Zitli, laughing. “One moment, mademoiselle! One at a time, not so? My brother, he is altogether well. He is in the high Alps, hunting the chamois, in manner that he could not come with us to the fête. The animals? Figure to yourself that La Dumaine has a calf! the image of herself, white as the moon, altogether beautiful. Mademoiselle, we have taken the liberty – my sister thought you would not object – briefly, we have named her La Moriole.”

“No! you haven’t! Oh, Zitli, how perfectly darling of you! Oh, I am so delighted! Oh, how I should like to see her!”

“For example! We are hoping, my sister and I – my brother also, if he were not absent – that mademoiselle will soon do us the honor to visit the Châlet again, to see her namesake, and – ”

He stopped short, seeing Honor’s face change.

“Zitli,” she cried, “I shall never see the Châlet again! never, never, never! I am going away, across the ocean, to America. My heart is broken, so I shall not live long, do you see? I am glad of that, of course, because I have to be cheerful, and that is not easy with a broken heart – Zitli! you are laughing at me!”

A quick flush swept over Honor’s face. Zitli, instantly responsive, seized her hand.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle! I implore your forgiveness!” he cried. “I was not laughing, only smiling. Mademoiselle looks so – in fine, so other than heart-broken.”

“Looks mean little!” Honor was really hurt. She had thought Zitli would understand. She longed to quote to him the lines which seemed so appropriate to her condition:

 
“When hollow hearts shall wear a mask
’Twill break thine own to see,
In such a moment I but ask
That you’ll remember me!”
 

Patricia laughed at them, and said they made neither sense nor poetry, but Maria thought them lovely.

“Looks mean little!” she repeated. “I thought you would understand, Zitli!”

“Dear mademoiselle, I do understand, indeed I do. It grieves me to the heart that you must go, and that you are unhappy. Only – to cross the ocean! To see that great wonderful country of America – ah! sapperli! Think how many would give all they possess for a chance!”

“But – but to leave Switzerland, Zitli! You couldn’t bear it yourself?”

Zitli gave his quaint shrug.

“My faith, mademoiselle, I do not know. Not, of course, unless I was sure, sure, of returning to my own country. But it appears to me that America is your own country, Mademoiselle Honor. One has – forgive me, but you have said we are friends – one has a duty to that, not so?”

Honor hung her head.

“I never thought of that!” she said. “How could a great country need a girl like me?”

Zitli looked at her with kind grave eyes; she had not realized before how like he was, on his small scale, to the Twins.

“My brother Atli says, my sister Gretli also, that a country has need of all her children. They should be always ready – pardon, mademoiselle! One beckons you yonder, the ancient lady, very beautiful, on the bench.”

“It is my aunt – at least I am to call her aunt!” explained Honor. “Come, Zitli, come and be introduced to her! She is strange, but so kind and good; I want you to know her.

“My aunt,” she cried, when Zitli, making his best speed on his crutches, had reached the corner where Mrs. Damian sat, and had made his bow, “this is Zitli, my friend! I am glad for him to know you; and for you to know him!” she added, her cheeks glowing with loyal affection.

Mrs. Damian held out her delicate hand with its weight of costly rings; Zitli took it reverentially in his brown, slender fingers and bowed again over it.

“This is Zitli-my-friend, is it?” said the old lady. “How do you do, Zitli-my-friend? Are you a good boy?”

Her dark eyes pierced him, Zitli told Gretli afterward, like a sword; never had he encountered such a gaze. He colored high, but met the look bravely.

“As to that, madame, with reverence be it said, it would be necessary to ask the Eternal Father. To be good is my desire, but not yet my accomplishment.”

Mrs. Damian nodded. “Well answered! We may all say the same, Zitli-my-friend. Honor has told me about you; will you and your sister come to see me at my hotel before you go home? Good! You spend the night in Vevay? To-morrow then!”

She gave him a nod of dismissal, curt but kindly; Zitli bowed again and stumped away to join his sisters.

“You allow your little – a – charge – to make acquaintance with the peasantry?” Mrs. Desmond spoke in a tone of airy silver, like that Patricia used in her bad moments.

“I allow – and desire – my little charge to make the acquaintance of good people, wherever she meets them!” Mrs. Damian spoke dryly, with a nod at each clause. “Folly, the sun is in my eyes. Move my chair over yonder, will you?” She indicated a spot at some distance, and with a ceremonious bow to Mrs. Desmond, moved off.

“I should have bitten that woman in another moment!” she explained. “My Professor never liked me to bite in company. This will do! What? Sun here too? Woman, try to have a little sense! What did you bring the parasol for?”

She seated herself, with a sweep of satin draperies, and continued,

“And it is to the society of people of that description that you are forcing me back. Forcing me back, do you hear? After fifty years of freedom! For the last ten of them, the desolate freedom of the wild ass, as you say – and I hope you think it is a proper remark for you to make – ”

“I will not repeat it, Mrs. Damian,” replied Miss Folly, who had not opened her lips.

“See that you don’t! Look! They are going to start. Folly, I – I hope the child will win!”

“I hope she will. It is between her and the Desmond girl, certainly.”

“Trip up the Desmond girl! Throw a stone in front of her, can’t you? You have no invention, Folly. My Indian Amma would have had a snake up her sleeve, at the very least. Western civilization – so-called – is abhorrent to me, do you hear? There they go!”

The girls were ranged at the head of the broad allée; five of them: Patricia, Honor, Stephanie, Vivette, and Desirée de Laval, who, though only thirteen, was tall and long-legged. A pretty sight they were, in their white tunics and sandals. A silver whistle sounded a single clear note; they stood at attention, tense as a strung bow, waiting for the start; a second note, and with a flutter of white garments, a shimmer of bright hair, they were off.

The allée was one hundred yards long; the course was twice the length of it. For the first fifty yards the girls kept well together; after that, practice, weight, and form began to tell. Vivette had no chance from the first, and knew it; she “went in” for every prize as a matter of principle and policy, and pounded along doggedly, bent on doing her best, whatever might be the result. Stephanie made a dash for the lead, but not attaining it, soon lost courage.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, usually the kindliest of writers, has shot one barbed arrow at my sex.

“The cow began to run,” he says, “as only cows and – it would not be safe to say it – can run.”

I wish the dear Doctor could have seen Honor and Patricia run. Vivette was cow-like, if you will; Stephanie was swift, but jerky, and with “not one particle of style!” as Helena Desmond murmured to herself. As they came down the allée on the first lap, these two were already dropping behind. Desirée, who was to make in time a notable runner, had not yet found herself, and was leaping like a colt, arms and legs flying like the sails of a windmill.

“But the other two,” said Imperia; “my word, they can run!”

Heads high, arms held close at the side, every muscle in play, yet in perfect control – Patricia and Honor sped down the course, side by side, light as thistle-down, swift as flying arrows, a lovely sight. So Atalanta herself ran, with

 
“… feet
That make the blown foam neither swift nor white
Though the wind winnow and whirl it.”
 

They rounded the turn. Patricia was a step in advance, but only a step; the little breeze that frolicked beside them blew their floating hair together as they ran, the pale gold mingling with the red. Desirée, just behind, gave a wild leap, and dropped on the grass at the side; Stephanie and Vivette were far behind. The excitement grew intense as the two girls came down the home stretch; neck and neck now, not a pace between them.

“Moriole! Moriole!” the girls’ voices broke out in a shrill clamor. “Moriole wins! No! It is Patricia! No, Moriole! Ah, ah! Vive la Moriole!”

What happened? Certainly Miss Folly had nothing to do with it, for her arms were folded under her neat mantle. At the very end, when almost touching the goal, Patricia seemed to stumble, as if over a loose stone. She recovered herself in an instant, but that instant had carried Honor past her to the finish, just one pace ahead.

A storm of applause broke out, but Honor did not seem to hear it. Panting, breathless, she stared at her rival, who returned her gaze with a smile which was not quite so gay as she meant it to be.

“Patricia! You are hurt? What was it? But it is not fair! You would have won; I shall tell our Sister! The prize shall be yours!”

“Don’t be grotesque, my dear!” Patricia was entirely herself now, and her speech, though still panting, was her own. “It was a close thing, and a pretty race, and I congratulate you. That’s all there is to it!”

Still bewildered, Honor examined the ground carefully. The hard white sand showed hardly a trace of the flying feet; there was no sign of any stone.

“It must have rolled away,” said Patricia carelessly. “Come on, little thing, and get your prize. And don’t be afraid,” she added, in an enigmatic tone; “I’ll get it next year! No fairy godmother for me, to whisk me overseas. I’ll get the apples next time, little Blackbird!”

CHAPTER XVII
THE BLAZE OF GLORY

“There are two ways of doing it!” said Mrs. Damian. “There is the dark lantern, hole-and-corner way, and there is the Blaze of Glory.”

Miss Folly looked up inquiringly. She seldom spoke when a look sufficed.

“We can pack the child up at the Pension,” Mrs. Damian continued, “sneak off in a cab to the station, leaving a trail of tears and sniffs behind us, and depart as if we were all going to the penitentiary together; or we can give her a Party and a Send-off, and go – as I said – in a Blaze of Glory. What do you say?”

“If I were the child, I should prefer the dark lantern,” said Miss Folly thoughtfully.

“Of course you would!” Mrs. Damian swooped like a hawk. “You have not red hair; and you are a mouse. A trained and intelligent mouse —no! I have it! You are a mongoose, Folly. Exactly! There is no difference. ‘The Wild Ass and the Mongoose, an Indian Fable.’ What is the plural of mongoose?”

“Mongooses!” replied Miss Folly promptly.

“Right! My former Affliction – I should say companion – would persist in saying ‘mongeese.’ I corrected her seventeen times; the eighteenth time I threw a sofa-pillow at her, and she left. Egypt was glad at her departing. As I was saying, Mongoose, you have not red hair, nor the dramatic temperament. This child has both. Therefore I decide on the Blaze of Glory. Bring pencil and paper, and we will make a list of the fireworks.”

So it came to pass that the day after the final examinations, when the girls were packing their trunks and exchanging last tokens and protestations of affection, they were told that they were all invited to the Hotel Royal, to spend the evening with Mrs. Damian.

“And with Honor, naturally!” said Soeur Séraphine. “Our Moriole has already gone to join her venerable relative. Mrs. Damian most kindly sends carriages for us at a quarter before seven o’clock precisely; be ready, my children!”

Honor had gone an hour before, after a talk with Madame Madeleine which she was to remember as long as she lived. The dear lady might have been parting with her own child, so tender was she, so full of affectionate solicitude. She repeated again and again her injunctions; to be good, to be happy; to think sometimes of the friends who loved her.

“Happy?” said poor Honor. “I will try to be good, dear Madame; I will be cheerful, because I have promised; but – happy? I shall never be happy again; never, never, never!”

She burst into wild weeping. Madame Madeleine watched her for a little in silence, letting the tears take their way. Then she rose, and opening a drawer of her little escritoire – they were sitting in her own room, to which we were admitted only on special occasions – took out a small object.

“Dry thy tears, my child!” she said, in her grave, kind voice. “I have something to show thee!”

It was a miniature-case that she held in her hand. She opened it, and Honor, wiping her swollen eyes, bent to look. A girl smiled at her; a girl older than herself, yet still in the freshness of youth: joyous, frank, beautiful as a flower, the eyes alight with happiness, the perfect mouth trembling to a smile.

“Oh!” cried Honor. “Oh, how lovely! how exquisite! Who is it, Madame?”

“It is my sister!” said Madame gravely. “It is Soeur Séraphine, whom you see every day and all day long, Honor.”

Honor looked again.

“I see it is!” Her voice was full of awe. “Of course it is! But – oh, Madame! What – what happened to our Sister?”

Madame Madeleine paused, as if communing with herself.

“Why not?” she said finally. “It may help! Listen, Honor! This was my sister Marie Séraphine at eighteen; that is, so much of her as could be caught and fixed in color. Of herself, the spirit of gayety and mirth that she was, it gives but the shadow. She was betrothed, to a man whom she tenderly loved; a man of whom one can but say that he seemed sent to earth to show what man could be. They were happy; they were to be married, from this very house, where then my beloved husband was still with me. A week before the wedding day – ”

The kind voice faltered a moment; then went quietly on,

“The two young people were in Paris, visiting friends. A great Bazaar was being held for charity, in a certain chapel. They – they went – ” the voice broke.

“Oh, madame! I know! I have heard – That terrible fire! So many lives lost – Oh! they were not there?”

Madame bowed her head.

“When the flames broke out, they were near a window. By God’s mercy, he – René – was able to break the window, and thrust my sister out into the street. Another woman, and yet another, he rescued; then – the crowd found him; they clung to him, they dragged him – he fell back – ”

Honor covered her face with her hands, shuddering.

Madame Madeleine was silent for a few moments; then she went on.

“It is not to agonize thee, my child, that I tell this sad tale. Listen still! At first, my sister prayed for death, as one prays for the morning. God did not send her that relief. Then she sought the religious life, and found therein a measure of peace. Time and work and prayer scarfed over the wound that never could wholly heal. For some years she continued in this, till the convent was broken up; then she came to me.

“That is the story, my Moriole, of my sister’s life. I do not often speak of it. I tell it to thee, that thou may’st know what real sorrow is, and how it may be borne. Take this knowledge with thee, my child, and may it prove profitable to thee!”

She kissed Honor’s forehead gravely, then made a little gesture of dismissal, and turned to replace the miniature.

Creeping away with bowed head and beating heart, Honor met Soeur Séraphine coming along the corridor with her light, swift tread. At sight of her, the Sister’s face, tranquil and beautiful, broke into its lovely smile, and Honor started, it was so like the pictured face that had smiled at her a moment; so like, yet – ah, how different!

“Tiens!” said Soeur Séraphine. “My little Moriole, I was seeking thee. The hour approaches, and thy toilette is not yet made. Thou hast been weeping, my child. I could well weep too, at losing thee, but the smile is the better fashion, see’st thou! As Monsieur thy father observed, ‘Bokope,’ my Moriole! Come then, and I will tie thy ribbon for thee!”

“First,” said Mrs. Damian, “we will inspect the tokens.”

“The tokens?” repeated Honor, slightly bewildered; Mrs. Damian was in one of her most swooping moods, and had already taken her breath away twice.

“Of affection!” replied the lady. “Tokens of affection; souvenirs; gimcracks; anything you choose to call them. This way, my dear!”

She led the way into a little boudoir, which seemed to be furnished largely with tissue paper and parcels, and motioned Honor toward a table on which lay a number of small objects. Honor bent over them in wonder and delight. Nine heart-shaped lockets of rock-crystal, each containing a tiny likeness of herself. Beside them, a larger print of her in a silver frame.

“Oh! how lovely!” cried Honor, clasping her hands. “How perfectly lovely! Are they – do they – ”

“They are for your schoolmates, naturally. You said there were nine of them? ‘Nine homesick puppies, in nine vehicles, straying sadly down the road to Peking.’² Quotation; contains a buried city. H’m! Well! Yes. The large one is for the two good ladies, who do not wear gimcracks. Well? Are you pleased?”

“But I am enchanted! They are exquisite. And all the girls have been begging me for my picture. But when were they taken, my aunt?”

“Folly snapped her kodak at you, the day of the race, and had the print enlarged. I found the lockets at Interlaken. Now you know as much as I do. Glad you like them!”

“And – oh! and my hair looks dark!” cried Honor. “It really does!”

“Yes, that is the only trouble with the likeness. Red hair should be powdered before photographing, or it looks perfectly black.”

“Oh, if it only were!” cried poor Honor. “I have always longed so for dark hair, madame. In America – would it be wicked if I blacked it, my aunt? It is wicked in Switzerland, our Sister says.”

“It would be idiotic,” said Mrs. Damian, “which is more to the point. Don’t be an idiot, child, whatever else you are. Look! Here is your dressing-case. Like it?”

But here Honor became speechless. Darkest green morocco, lined with satin, fitted with brushes, combs, and innumerable bottles, all in warm-white ivory, all marked – H.B. What could fourteen-year-old Honor say at sight of this marvel? She could only gasp, and clasp her hands together. It was some minutes before she managed to stammer out,

“I am combled! I am altogether combled, madame! What generosity, what goodness!”

“You like it?” repeated Mrs. Damian, watching her with evident pleasure.

“I have dreamed of such a thing!” said Honor. “I never thought to see one. Can it possibly be actually mine, madame?”

“It not only can, but is. Nobody else would want it, you see, with your initials on it.”

“I thank you! Oh, I thank you a hundred thousand times, for the beautiful, beautiful things, but, ah, how much more for your kindness! It enlarges me the heart! I – I – ” Honor faltered.

“Don’t cry! If you cry, I’ll break all the bottles. Here! take these chains and put the lockets on them!” Mrs. Damian held out a box containing a number of slender gold chains. “When the girls come, you may put them round their necks and make a pretty speech to each one. I have no time for pretty speeches. H’m! Folly, how about the emeralds? Pretty, with the white frock and the hair, eh?”

“Pretty, but very unsuitable!” said Miss Folly briefly.

“True! though I don’t know what business it is of yours. No ornaments at all, eh? Much better so! Put the diamond stars in my cap, will you? Some one must dress up a little; if you say much more, Mongoose, I’ll make you wear the emeralds yourself, and a pretty sight you’d be!”

Honor privately thought that Miss Folly needed nothing more to make her a pretty sight. In her simple dark blue dress, with the fichu of soft net and the old-fashioned topaz brooch, she was pretty enough, in all conscience. She seemed never in the least discomposed by Mrs. Damian’s abrupt speeches. She smiled now and went away, presumably to arrange the diamonds.

“H’m!” said Mrs. Damian. “Sit down, my dear. Don’t fidget! Your friends will be here soon. The last party I gave – let me see! Was it in Russia? After the last one I gave there, I remember, the servants ate up all the candles. But – no! the very last one was in Africa, in the Great Desert. My dear! would you like to hear about it? Fold your hands in your lap – lightly! Don’t clasp them. I am not Grand Opera. And don’t turn in your toes! So! We were quite a caravan, and there had been a sandstorm which came very near being the final party for all of us – h’m! yes! Well – so when we got to the nearest oasis and found we were all alive, it seemed proper to celebrate. You see?”

Mrs. Damian swooped; Honor blinked and caught her breath, then nodded eagerly.

“I see, my aunt! Continue, I pray you!”

“We ranged the camels and horses in a circle; after watering them, naturally. The mats were spread, and the Mohammedans said their prayers: well, I said mine too, only without demonstration. I am too old to show you how a Moslem prays; he kneels, tumbles forward on his forehead, then back on his heels. Very singular! I’d make Folly do it for you, but she has scruples.” This, as Miss Folly entered with the cap. “Thanks, Folly! Put it on for me, will you? Straight, please! None of your piratical rakishness! I believe you are a Buccaneer in disguise! Well, we supped on fresh dates, locusts and wild honey – I felt like John the Baptist – I had a garment of camel’s hair, too, though probably different from his – What is it, my dear? Keep your eyes in your head; they look better there.”

“Pardon me, my aunt! But – locusts? Really?”

“Really! fried in olive oil; crisp, and not at all bad. The Sheik could not eat with us, we being Infidels, but he sent us coffee, and was very friendly. Indeed, he offered to buy me. I was too old for a wife, he said, but he liked my talk, and thought I would do for a mother. I never was so flattered in my life; but my Professor decided to keep me. We had water that night to wash in; a small pitcherful, but still water, a great luxury. For a week we had washed in sand. But yes, certainly!” at Honor’s exclamation of amazement. “It is often so in the desert, where there isn’t water enough to drink. Sand is efficacious, but gritty. Ah! here come our friends.”

The girls entered on the stroke of seven, blushing and twittering, shepherded by Soeur Séraphine in her gray dress and spotless coif.

“She looks like a Princess of the Blood!” murmured Mrs. Damian. “Learn to hold yourself like that, Honor, and your hair may be red or green or piebald, it will not matter. Good evening, my Sister! I am delighted to see you. Young ladies, you are very welcome.”

Mrs. Damian’s French was that of one who to a natural gift has added fifty years of practice; nevertheless, she spoke English now, having divined with her lightning instinct that the Sister’s one little heavenly vanity was her English.

“Ze plaisir – pardon! – ze plaisure is teetotally to oz, madame! Be’old oz gazzered as von ’eart, von speerit, von sentiment, to greet you and our beloved young friend. Honor, all to thee, my little one! My children, English!”

The last words were a swift aside to the girls, and brought comfort or disaster, according to one’s nationality. All very well for Patricia and Maria, though the latter could only mumble, not having the gift of tongues, scarcely even of her own. Vivette enunciated neatly her “Good evening, Mrs. and Miss. ’Ow do you carry yourself?” and passed on, swelling visibly with modest pride. Rose Marie and most of the others escaped with a polite murmur which might have been English or Choctaw. But poor Stephanie! she had hoped to escape speech altogether by keeping well behind the Sister’s ample robes. English was to her an “apoplexy of a language,” and she rather made a point of not knowing any. But now little Loulou, who had spoken very nicely, and who had her own idea of what was proper, gave a shrewd pinch to Stephanie’s arm, at the very instant when Soeur Séraphine, extending a firm hand, drew her inexorably forward into full view.