Chester smoothed out the pages, but then smilingly turned them face downward, and Aline said: 

“First, Hector will tell us who’s there.”

Hector was Cupid.  He came again, murmuring a name to Mlle. Corinne.  She rose with hands clasped.  “C’est M. et Mme. Rene Ducatel!”

“Well?  Hector will give your excuses; you are imperatively engaged.”

“Ah, chere, on Sunday evening!  Tha’z an incredibility!  Must you not let me go?  You ’ave ’Ector.”

“Ah-h! and we are here to read this momentous document to Hector?” The sparkle of amused command was enchanting to at least one besides Cupid.

Yet it did not win.  “Chere, you make me tremble.  Those Ducatel’, they’ve come so far!  How can we show them so li’l’ civilization when they’ve come so far?  An’ me I’m convince’, and Yvonne she’s convince’, that you an’ Mr. Chezter you’ll be ab’e to judge that manuscrip’ better al-lone.  Oh, yes! we are convince’ of that, biccause, you know—­I’m sorrie—­we are prejudice’ in its favor!”

Aline’s lifted brows appealed to Chester.  “Maybe hearing it,” he half-heartedly said, “may correct your aunts’ judgment.”

The aunt shook her head in a babe’s despair.  “No, we’ve tri’ that.”  Her smile was tearful.  “Ah, cherie, you both muz’ pardon.  Laz’ night we was both so af-raid about that, an’ of a so affegtionate curio-zitie, that we was compel’ to read that manuscrip’ through!  An’ we are convince’—­though tha’z not ab-out clocks, neither angels, neither lovers—­yet same time tha’z a moz’ marvellouz manuscrip’.  Biccause, you know, tha’z a true story, that ‘Holy Crozz.’  Tha’z concerning an insurregtion of slave’—­there in Santa Cruz.  And ‘a slave insurregtion,’ tha’z what they ought to call it, yes!—­to prom-ote the sale.  Already laz’ night Yvonne she say she’s convince’ that in those Northron citie’, where they are since lately so fon’ of that subjec’, there be people by dozen’—­will devour that story!”

She tripped off to the house.

“Hector,” said Aline, “you may sit down.”

Cupid slid into the vacated seat.  Chester dropped the document into his pocket.

“For what?” the girl archly inquired.

“I want to take it to my quarters and judge it there.  Why shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, you may do that.”

“And now tell me of your father, or his father—­the one Beloiseau knew—­Theophile Chapdelaine.”

“Both were Theophile.  He knew them both.”

“Then tell me of both.”

“Mr. Chester, ’twould be to talk of myself!”

“I won’t take it so.  Tell the story purely as theirs.  It must be fine.  They were set, in conscience, against the conscience of their day——­”

“So is Mr. Chester.”

“Never mind that, either.  We’re in a joint commercial enterprise; we want a few good stories that will hang on one stem.  Our business is business; a primrose by the river’s brim—­nothing more!  Although”—­the speaker reddened——­