ourhood afforded.
But now, after a separation of twenty years, Andre, who has become our
cure, insists upon treating me with distance. He won't waive the fact
that I am the lord of the manor, and calls me relentlessly Monsieur.
I've done everything to entice him to unbend, but his backbone is of
granite. From the merriest of mischief-loving youngsters, he has
hardened into the solemnest of square-toes, with _such_ a long
upper-lip, and manners as stiff as the stuff of his awful best
cassock, which he always buckles on prior to paying me a visit.
Whatever is a poor young man to do? At our first meeting, after my
arrival, I fell upon his neck, and thee-and-thou'd him, as of old
time; he repulsed me with a _vous_ italicised. At last I demanded
reason. "Why _will_ you treat me with this inexorable respect? What
have I done to deserve it? What can I do to forfeit it?" _Il devint
cramoisi_ (in the traditional phrase) and stared.--This is what it is
to come back to the home of your infancy.'

Andre, in his awful best cassock, was waiting on the terrace. It was
on the terrace that Paul had ordered luncheon to be served. The
terrace at Saint-Graal is a very jolly place. It stretches the whole
length of the southern facade of the house, and is generously broad.
It is paved with great lozenge-shaped slabs of marble, stained in
delicate pinks and greys with lichens; and a marble balustrade
borders it, overgrown, the columns half uprooted and twisted from the
perpendicular, by an aged wistaria-vine, with a trunk as stout as a
tree's. Seated there, one can look off over miles of richly-timbered
country, dotted with white-walled villages, and traversed by the Nive
and the Adour, to the wry masses of the Pyrenees, purple curtains
hiding Spain.

Here, under an awning, the table was set, gay with white linen and
glistening glass and silver, a centrepiece of flowers and jugs of red
and yellow wine. The wistaria was in blossom, a world of colour and
fragrance, shaken at odd moments by the swift dartings of innumerable
lizards. The sun shone hot and clear; the still air, as you touched
it, felt like velvet.

'Oh, what a heavenly place, what a heavenly day,' cried Paul; 'it only
needs a woman.' And then, meeting Andre's eye, he caught himself up,
with a gesture of contrition. 'I beg a thousand pardons. I forgot your
cloth. If you,' he added, 'would only forget it too, what larks we
might have together. _Allons, a table_.'

And they sat