"Are you mad?" said his mother.

"Ah--" he struggled to say--"if only you had seen the cows--our
cows--and the General in the air--oh!"

A faint smile dawned in the depths of her eyes. "You have certainly lost
your senses," she said, and slipped her hand into his arm. "Come down
into the garden: I like it in the twilight--and that pile of stones over
there will not weigh upon our eyes; the trees hide it. Come, my Ange:
tell me all your news, serious and laughable. I am glad you were helping
your uncle; but I do not like you to be away all day."

"I could not help it, mother," Angelot said. "Yes; I have indeed a great
deal to tell you."

They strolled down together into the garden, where the vivid after-glow
flushed all the flowers with rose. His mother leaned upon his arm, and
they paced along by the tall box hedges. The serious part of the story
was long, and interested her far more than the General's comic
adventure, at which Angelot could only make her smile, though the
telling of it sent him off into another fit of laughter.

"Poor Monsieur de Mauves, to go about with such a strange animal!" she
said. "As for you, my child, you grow more childish every day. When will
you be a man? Now be serious, for I hear your father coming."

CHAPTER VI

HOW LA BELLE HELENE TOOK AN EVENING WALK

Monsieur Urbain de la Mariniere was always amiable and indulgent. He did
not reproach his son for his long absence or ask him to give any account
of himself; not, that is, till he had talked to his heart's content, all
through the evening meal, of the coming of the Sainfoys, their
adventures by the way, their impressions on arrival.

He was glad, on the whole, that he had not organised any public
reception. Herve had decided against it, fearing some jarring notes
which might prejudice his wife against the place and the country. As it
was, she was fairly well pleased. A few old people in the village had
come out of their doors to wave a welcome as the carriages passed;
groups of children had thrown flowers; the servants, some sent on from
Paris, others hired by Urbain in the neighbourhood, had stood in lines
at the entrance. Urbain himself had met them at the door. The Sainfoys,
very tired, of course, after their many hours of rough driving, were
delighted to find themselves at last within the old walls, deserted
twenty years ago. Only the son, now fighting in Spain, had been born at
Lancilly; the three girls were chi