“There may be something in that,” admitted Allison.  “What charming neighbours they are!” he added, in a burst of enthusiasm.

“Madame Bernard,” replied the Colonel, with emphasis, “is one of the finest women I have ever had the good fortune to meet.  Miss Rose is like her, but I have known only one other of the same sort.”

“And the other was—­”

“Your mother.”

The Colonel pushed back his plate and went to the window.  Beyond the mountains, somewhere in “God’s acre,” was the little sunken grave still enfolding a handful of sacred dust.  With a sudden throb of pain, Allison realised, for the first time in his life, that his father was an old man.  The fine, strong face, outlined clearly by the pitiless afternoon sun, was deeply lined:  the broad shoulders were stooped a little, and the serene eyes dimmed as though by mist.  In the moment he seemed to have crossed the dividing line between maturity and age.

Allison was about to suggest that they take a walk after luncheon, having Madame Bernard’s household in mind as the ultimate object, but, before he could speak, the Colonel had turned away from the window.

“Some day you’ll marry, lad,” he said, in a strange tone.

Allison smiled and shrugged his shoulders doubtfully.

“And then,” the Colonel continued, with a little catch in his voice, “the house will be none too large for two—­for you two.”

Very rarely, and for a moment only, Allison looked like his mother.  For an instant she lived again in her son’s eyes, then vanished.

“Dad,” he said, gently, “I’m sure you wouldn’t desert me even if I did marry.  You’ve stood by me too long.”

The stooped shoulders straightened and the Colonel smiled.  “Do you mean that—­if you married, you’d still—­want me?”

“Most assuredly.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“If she didn’t,” returned Allison, lightly, “she wouldn’t get me.  Not that I’m any prize to be wrangled over by the fair sex, individually or collectively, but you and I stand together, Dad, and don’t you forget it.”

The Colonel cleared his throat, tried to speak, then stopped abruptly.  “I have been thinking,” he continued, with a swift change of mood and subject, “that we might manage a dinner party.  We’re much indebted to Madame Bernard.”

“Good idea!  I don’t know what sort of party it would prove to be, but, if we did our best, it would be all right with them.  Anyhow, Aunt Francesca would give an air to it.”

“So would the others, Miss Rose especially.”

“I wonder why Aunt Francesca didn’t marry again,” mused Allison.

“Because her heart is deep enough to hold a grave.”

“You knew her husband, didn’t you?”

“He was my best friend,” answered the Colonel, a little sadly.  “How the years separate and destroy, and blot out the things that count for the most!”

“I wonder how she happened to be named ‘Francesca.’  It isn’t an American name.”