“I was seeing our hotel in times of peace,” he said.  “It was a sort of mental transference, I suppose, but the place looked good to me.  It was crowded with people, many of whom were from America, and some of whom I would like to know.  I’ve never had a horror of tourists—­in fact I think the horror of them that most people pretend to feel is a sort of affectation, a false attempt at superiority—­and I always liked, when I was a sightseer myself, to come back to the hotel in the evening and meet the cheerful crowd full of chatter and gossip.”

“That is what I should want to do if ever I should go to America.  They say that your distances there are great and your hotels large and bright.  I shouldn’t want to miss seeing the people in the evenings under the blazing electric lights.”

“You’ll see them, Miss Julie, because I know that you’re going to America some time or other.”

They were speaking in English again and Suzanne, wrapped in a gray cloak and looking very large, assumed her old grim look.  John glanced at her and for the moment he was just a little afraid of her.  He saw her eyes saying very plainly:  “You’re an American and a foreigner and my mistress, Mademoiselle Julie Lannes, a very young girl, is French.  You should not be talking together at all, and if you were not so necessary to us in our hour of danger I would see that she was quickly taken far away from you.”

He led the way into the smoking-room, where there were many comfortable chairs, and writing-desks with pen, ink and paper at hand.  Everything was ready for use, but guests and waiters were lacking.

“Let’s go into the main dining-room,” said John, who had opened another door.  “It’s a fine, big place and the windows look directly over the river.  Doubtless we’d have a good view from here if it were not for the driving snow.”

It was, in fact, a handsome long room, proving the truth of John’s surmise that many guests came at times to Chastel, and, to their great surprise, they found several of the tables fully dressed, as if some of the people had just been sitting down to dinner, when the voice of the shells bade them go.

“You see it’s waiting for us,” said John.  “Why, we’d have done its proprietor a wrong if we’d missed the Hotel de l’Europe.  The table is set and, hospitable Frenchman that he is, he’ll be glad to know that somebody is enjoying his house in his absence.  The pepper, the salt and the vinegar are there, and I actually see a small bottle of wine on one of the tables.”

“Poor man!” said Julie.  “It must have cost him much to go.  You don’t know, Mr. John, how we French love our homes and houses.”

“Oh, yes, I do, and we in America, since there’s no longer any Wild West in which we can seek romance and change, are settling down into the same habits.”

“Would Mademoiselle and Mr. Scott wish us to serve their dinner here?” asked Antoine gravely, the duties of his position ever uppermost in his mind.