forceful, and direct, completely fluent, although marked with a heavy accent.
“’Ow are you, my dear?” La Marquise said, as she kissed the other woman on the cheek. “It is good to see you again after these so many years.’Ow long’as it been since you were last at Mornaye?”
“Almost seven years, Marquise,” the Countess answered eagerly. “The last time—do you remember?—was in the spring of 1918.”
“Ah, yes,” the other answered benevolently. “Now I can remember. You were here when many of our so brave Américains were quartered here at Mornaye—Monsieur,” she said, using this reference as an introduction, and turning to the boy with her plump little hand extended in a movement of kindly greeting, “I am delighted. I meck apologies for my son. I know he will so much regret not seeing you.”
He flushed, and stammered out his thanks: she seemed to take no notice of his embarrassment and, having completed her friendly welcome, she turned smilingly to the Countess again, and said:
“And’ow’ave you been, my dear? You are looking very well,” she said approvingly, “and no older dan you were de lest time you were here. I s’ink,” she said smilingly, including the young man now in her friendly humour—“I s’ink la Comtesse must’ave discover—wat you call it, eh?” she shrugged—“ze se-cret of ze fountain of yout’, eh?”
“Ah, Marquise,” the Countess fawned greedily upon the grand woman, obviously elated by these signs of intimacy—“ah—hah—hah! it is so kind of you to say so—but I fear I have grown much older since I saw you last. I have known great trouble,” she said sadly, “and, as you know, Marquise, my health has not been good.”
“Non?” the other said with an air of solicitous inquiry. “I am so sor-ree,” she continued in a tone of unimpeachable regret, which nevertheless showed that the Countess’s health or lack of it was really of no moment to her whatever. “Perhaps, my dear, it is ze wretchet cleemat here. I s’ink perhaps you should go Sout’in vintaire—ah, monsieur,” she continued regretfully, turning to the youth, “you see Mornaye at a bat season of ze year—I fear you may be disappointed by our coun-tree. I’ope you vill come beck some time in sprink. Zen, I s’ink you vill agree la France is beautiful.”
“I should like to,” he replied.
“But oh, zis vintaire! Zis vintaire!” La Marquise cried with passionate distaste, folding her arms and drawing herself together in a movement of chilled ardour as she looked through a tall French door across one of those magnificent
