"You do not speak like an Englishman," she said. "For I know one or
two. One came to the school at Saintes. He was a famous English
prelate, and he had the manner--well, of a tree. And when he spoke,
it was what one would expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech.
But you--you are not like that."

Loo Barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed infectious,
though Marie did not join in it, but stood scowling in the doorway.

"Yes," he said, "you have described them exactly. I know a hundred
who are like great trees. Many are so, but they are kind and still
like trees--the English, when you know them, mademoiselle."

"They?" she said, with her prettily arched eyebrows raised high.

"We, I mean," he answered, quickly, taking her meaning in a flash.
"I almost forgot that I was an Englishman. It is my heritage,
perhaps, that makes me forget--or yourself. It is so easy and
natural to consider one's self a Frenchman--and so pleasant."

Marie shuffled with her feet and made a movement of impatience, as
if to remind them that they were still far from the business in hand
and were merely talking of themselves, which is the beginning of all
things--or may be the beginning of the inevitable end.

"But I forgot," said Barebone, at once. "And it is getting late.
Your father has had a slight misfortune. He has sprained his ankle.
He is on board my ship, the ship of which I am--I have been--an
officer, lying at anchor in the river near here, off the village of
Mortagne. I came from Mortagne at your father's request, with