“I really feel,” he said, laughingly, “like asking you to whom I have the honor of speaking.”

“You find me grown?” she said, showing her dazzling teeth.

“Surprisingly so,” said Lucan; “most surprisingly.  I understand Pierre perfectly now.”

“Poor Pierre!” said Julia; “he is so fond of you.  Don’t let us keep him waiting any longer, if you please.”

They started in the direction of the carriage, in front of which Monsieur de Moras was awaiting them, and while walking side by side: 

“What a lovely country!” resumed Julia.  “And the sea quite near?”

“Quite near.”

“We’ll take a ride on horseback after breakfast, will we not?”

“Quite willingly; but you must be horribly fatigued, my dear child.  Excuse me! my dear—?  By the way, how do you wish me to call you?”

“Call me madam.  I was such a bad child!”

And she broke forth into a roll of that sudden, graceful, but somewhat equivocal laughter that was habitual with her.  Then raising her voice: 

“You may come, Pierre; your friend is my friend now!”

She left the two men shaking hands cordially, and exchanging the usual greetings, jumped into the carriage, and resuming her seat at her mother’s side: 

“Mother,” she said, kissing her at the same time, “the meeting came off very well—­didn’t it, Monsieur de Lucan?”

“Very well, indeed,” said Lucan, laughingly, “except some minor details.”

“Oh! you are too hard to please, sir!” said Julia, drawing her wrappings around her.

The next moment Monsieur de Lucan was cantering by the carriage door, while the three travelers inside were indulging in one of those expansive talks that usually follow the happy solution of a dreaded crisis.  Clotilde, henceforth in the full possession of all her affections, was fairly soaring in the ethereal blue.

“You are too handsome, mother,” said Julia.  “With such a big girl as I am, it is a positive crime!”

And she kissed her again.

Lucan, while participating in the conversation and doing to Julia the honors of the landscape, was trying to sum up within himself his impressions of the ceremony which had just taken place.  Upon the whole he thought, as did his step-daughter, that it had come off very well, although it was not quite perfection.  Perfection would have been to find in Julia a plain and unaffected woman, who would have simply thrown herself in her step-father’s arms and laughed with him at her spoilt child’s escapade; but he had never expected Julia’s manners to be quite as frank and open as that.  She had done in the present circumstances all that could be expected of a nature like hers; she had shown herself graciously friendly; she had, it is true, imparted to this first interview a certain solemn and dramatic turn.  She was romantic, and as Lucan was tolerably so himself, this whim of hers had not proved unpleasant to him.