Blunt pulled himself up short, but not so short as not to let the
confused murmur of the word "adorable" reach our attentive ears.
The heavy Mills made a slight movement in his chair. The effect on
me was more inward, a strange emotion which left me perfectly
still; and for the moment of silence Blunt looked more fatal than
ever.
"I understand it didn't last very long," he addressed us politely
again. "And no wonder! The sort of talk she would have heard
during that first springtime in Paris would have put an impress on
a much less receptive personality; for of course Allegre didn't
close his doors to his friends and this new apparition was not of
the sort to make them keep away. After that first morning she
always had somebody to ride at her bridle hand. Old Doyen, the
sculptor, was the first to approach them. At that age a man may
venture on anything. He rides a strange animal like a circus
horse. Rita had spotted him out of the corner of her eye as he
passed them, putting up his enormous paw in a still more enormous
glove, airily, you know, like this" (Blunt waved his hand above his
head), "to Allegre. He passes on. All at once he wheels his
fantastic animal round and comes trotting after them. With the
merest casual 'Bonjour, Allegre' he ranges close to her on the
other side and addresses her, hat in hand, in that booming voice of
his like a deferential roar of the sea very far away. His
articulation is not good, and the first words she really made out
were 'I am an old sculptor. . . Of course there is that habit. . .
But I can see you through all that. . . '
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