r own world with no provincial
drawbacks, a woman at her ease, and serenely unconscious of, or
indifferent to, the quality of the astounding tongue in which she spoke.

She talked of London and of the French emigrant nobles in Philadelphia,
of the Marquis de la Garde, who taught dancing; of the Comte du Vallon,
who gave lessons in fencing; of De Malerive, who made ice-cream. Madame,
interested, questioned her until they got upon unhappy France, when she
shifted the talk and spoke of the kindness of Mr. Wynne.

"It will soon be too hot here," said Gainor, "and then I shall have you
at the Hill--Chestnut Hill, and in a week I shall come for you to ride
in my landau,"--there were only four in the city,--"and the vicomte
shall drive with you next Saturday. You may not know that my niece Mrs.
Wynne was of French Quakers from the Midi, and this is why her son loves
your people and has more praise for your son than he himself is like to
hear from my nephew. For my part, when I hate, I let it out, and when I
love or like, I am frank," which was true.

Just then came the old black servant man Cicero, once a slave of James
Logan the first, and so named by the master, folks said, because of
pride in his fine translation of the "De Senectute" of Cicero, which
Franklin printed.

"Cicero will carry thee out," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"Will he, indeed?" said Gainor, seeing a shadow of annoyance come over
the grave face of the sick woman as she said, "I can walk," and rose
unsteadily. The pelisse was off, and before the amazed vicomtesse could
speak, she was in Gainor's strong arms and laid gently down on a lounge
in the outer air.

"_Mon Dieu!_" was all she could say, "but you are as a man for strength.
Thank you."

The roses were below her. The cool air came over them from the river,
and the violet of the eastward sky reflected the glow of the setting
sun. A ship with the tricolor moved up with the flood, a _bonnet rouge_
at the masthead, as was common.

"What flag is that?" asked the vicomtesse. "And that red thing? I do not
see well."

"I do not know," said Gainor, calmly fibbing; and seeing her goddaughter
about to speak, she put a finger on her lips and thrust a hand ignorant
of its strength in the ribs of the hostess as madame, looking down among
the trees on the farther slope, said: "Who is that? How merry they are!"

"Adam and Eve--in the garden," replied Gainor.

"For shame!" murmured Mary Swanwick in English. "It is