“They are men, cher pere—­bold, bad Englishmen!—­think of it! but I can only tell you the name of one of them—­the other is problematical—­he has merely been spoken of as, ’My friend’—­but he is young, I gather, so just the affaire of Mere Imogen!”

“Why, that’s likely!” chirped Madame Imogen, with a strong American accent, in her French English.  “But I do pine for some gay things down here, don’t you, Father?”

Pere Anselme was heard to murmur that he found youth enough in his hostess, if you asked him.

“At the same time, we must welcome these Englishmen,” he added, “should they be people of cultivation.”  He had heard that, in their upper classes, the Englishmen of to-day were still the greatest gentlemen left, and he would be pleased to meet examples of them.

“They will arrive at about five o’clock, I suppose,” Sabine announced.  “Have you seen about their rooms, Mere Imogen?  Lord Fordyce is to have the Louis XIV suite, and the friend the one beyond; and we will only let them come into our house if they do not bore us.  We shall dine in the salle-a-manger to-night and sit in the big salon.”

These rooms were seldom opened, except when Princess Torniloni came to stay and brought her son, Sabine’s godchild, who had elaborate nurseries prepared for him.  No other visitor had ever crossed the causeway, and Madame Imogen’s cute mind was asking itself why clemency had been accorded to these two Britons.  The English, as she knew, were not a favored race with her employer.

They had been together for about two years now, she and Sabine—­and were excellent friends.

Madame Imogen Aubert had been in great straits in Paris, when Sabine had heard of her through one of her many American acquaintances.  Stupid speculation by an over-confident, silly French husband just before his death in Nevada had been the reason.  Madame Imogen had the kindest heart and the hardest common sense, and did credit to a distant Scotch descent.  She adored Sabine, as indeed she had reason to do, and looked after her house and her servants with a hawk’s eye.

After dejeuner was over, the Dame d’Heronac and the Cure crossed the causeway bridge, and beyond the great towered gate entered another at the side, which conducted them into the garden, which sheltered itself behind immensely big walls from the road which curled beyond it, and the sea which bounded it on the northwest.  Here, whatever horticultural talent and money could procure had been lavished for four years, and the results were beginning to show.  It was a glorious mass of summer flowers; and was the supreme pleasure of Pere Anselme.  He gardened with the fervor of an enthusiast, and was the joy and terror of the gardeners.

They spent two hours in delightful work, and then the Cure went his way—­but just before he left for the hundred yards down the road where his cottage stood, Sabine said to him: