The whole family looked at them with great respect.

“Oh, they are indeed swell boats!” Monsieur Dufour repeated gravely, as he examined them like a connoiseur.  He had been in the habit of rowing in his younger days, he said, and when he had spat in his hands—­and he went through the action of pulling the oars—­he did not care a fig for anybody.  He had beaten more than one Englishman formerly at the Joinville regattas.  He grew quite excited at last and offered to make a bet that in a boat like that he could row six leagues an hour without exerting himself.

“Luncheon is ready,” the waitress said, appearing at the entrance to the boathouse, and they all hurried off.  But two young men had taken the very seats that Madame Dufour had selected and were eating their luncheon.  No doubt they were the owners of the sculls, for they were in boating costume.  They were stretched out, almost lying on the chairs; they were sun-browned and their thin cotton jerseys, with short sleeves, showed their bare arms, which were as strong as a blacksmith’s.  They were two strong, athletic fellows, who showed in all their movements that elasticity and grace of limb which can only be acquired by exercise and which is so different to the deformity with which monotonous heavy work stamps the mechanic.

They exchanged a rapid smile when they saw the mother and then a glance on seeing the daughter.

“Let us give up our place,” one of them said; “it will make us acquainted with them.”

The other got up immediately, and holding his black and red boating cap in his hand, he politely offered the ladies the only shady place in the garden.  With many excuses they accepted, and that it might be more rural, they sat on the grass, without either tables or chairs.

The two young men took their plates, knives, forks, etc., to a table a little way off and began to eat again, and their bare arms, which they showed continually, rather embarrassed the girl.  She even pretended to turn her head aside and not to see them, while Madame Dufour, who was rather bolder, tempted by feminine curiosity, looked at them every moment, and, no doubt, compared them with the secret unsightliness of her husband.  She had squatted herself on ground, with her legs tucked under her, after the manner of tailors, and she kept moving about restlessly, saying that ants were crawling about her somewhere.  Monsieur Dufour, annoyed at the presence of the polite strangers, was trying to find a comfortable position which he did not, however, succeed in doing, and the young man with the yellow hair was eating as silently as an ogre.

“It is lovely weather, monsieur,” the stout lady said to one of the boating men.  She wished to be friendly because they had given up their place.

“It is, indeed, madame,” he replied.  “Do you often go into the country?”

“Oh, only once or twice a year to get a little fresh air.  And you, monsieur?”