In a moment she had taken off her mantle, and Jean could admire, in all its exquisite perfection, a figure marvellous for suppleness and grace.  Miss Percival then removed her hat, but with a little too much haste, for this was the signal for a charming catastrophe.  A whole avalanche descended in torrents, in long cascades, over Bettina’s shoulders.  She was standing before a window flooded by the rays of the sun, and this golden light, falling full on this golden hair, formed a delicious frame for the sparkling beauty of the young girl.  Confused and blushing, Bettina was obliged to call her sister to her aid, and Mrs. Scott had much trouble in introducing order into this disorder.

When this disaster was at length repaired, nothing could prevent Bettina from rushing on plates, knives, and forks.

“Oh, indeed,” said she to Jean, “I know very well how to lay the cloth.  Ask my sister.  Tell him, Susie, when I was a little girl in New York, I used to lay the cloth very well, didn’t I?”

“Very well, indeed,” said Mrs. Scott.

And then, while begging the Cure to excuse Bettina’s want of thought, she, too, took off her hat and mantle, so that Jean had again the very agreeable spectacle of a charming figure and beautiful hair; but, to Jean’s great regret, the catastrophe had not a second representation.

In a few minutes Mrs. Scott, Miss Percival, the Cure, and Jean were seated round the little vicarage table; then, thanks partly to the impromptu and original nature of the entertainment, partly to the good-humor and perhaps slightly audacious gayety of Bettina, the conversation took a turn of the frankest and most cordial familiarity.

“Now, Monsieur le Cure,” said Bettina, “you shall see if I did not speak the truth when I said I was dying of hunger.  I never was so glad to sit down to dinner.  This is such a delightful finish to our day.  Both my sister and I are perfectly happy now we have this castle, and these farms, and the forest.”

“And then,” said Mrs. Scott, “to have all that in such an extraordinary and unexpected manner.  We were so taken by surprise.”

“You may indeed say so, Susie.  You must know, Monsieur l’Abbe, that yesterday was my sister’s birthday.  But first, pardon me, Monsieur—­Jean, is it not?”

“Yes, Miss Percival, Monsieur Jean.”

“Well, Monsieur Jean, a little more of that excellent soup, if you please.”

The Abbe was beginning to recover a little, but he was still too agitated to perform the duties of a host.  It was Jean who had undertaken the management of his godfather’s little dinner.  He filled the plate of the charming American, who fixed upon him the glance of two large eyes, in which sparkled frankness, daring, and gayety.  The eyes of Jean, meanwhile, repaid Miss Percival in the same coin.  It was scarcely three quarters of an hour since the young American and the young officer had made acquaintance in the Cure’s garden, yet both felt already perfectly at ease with each other, full of confidence, almost like old friends.