In truth I thought that very probable.  Miss Elizabeth had mentioned in one of her notes that Ward had leased Quesnay, but I had not sought quarters at Les Trois Pigeons because it stood within walking distance of the chateau.  In my industrious frame of mind that circumstance seemed almost a drawback.  Miss Elizabeth, ever hospitable to those whom she noticed at all, would be doubly so in the country, as people always are; and I wanted all my time to myself—­no very selfish wish since my time was not conceivably of value to any one else.  I thought it wise to leave any encounter with the lady to chance, and as the by-paths of the country-side were many and intricate, I intended, without ungallantry, to render the chance remote.  George himself had just sailed on a business trip to America, as I knew from her last missive; and until his return, I should put in all my time at painting and nothing else, though I liked his sister, as I have said, and thought of her—­often.

Amedee doubted my sincerity, however, for he laughed incredulously.

“Eh, well, monsieur enjoys saying it!”

“Certainly.  It is a pleasure to say what one means.”

“But monsieur could not mean it.  Monsieur will call at the chateau in the morning”—­the complacent varlet prophesied—­“as early as it will be polite.  I am sure of that.  Monsieur is not at all an old man; no, not yet!  Even if he were, aha! no one could possess the friendship of that wonderful Madame d’Armand and remain away from the chateau.”

“Madame d’Armand?” I said.  “That is not the name.  You mean Mademoiselle Ward.”

“No, no!” He shook his head and his fat cheeks bulged with a smile which I believe he intended to express a respectful roguishness.  “Mademoiselle Ward” (he pronounced it “Ware”) “is magnificent; every one must fly to obey when she opens her mouth.  If she did not like the ocean there below the chateau, the ocean would have to move!  It needs only a glance to perceive that Mademoiselle Ward is a great lady—­but madame D’ARMAND!  Aha!” He rolled his round eyes to an effect of unspeakable admiration, and with a gesture indicated that he would have kissed his hand to the stars, had that been properly reverential to Madame d’Armand.  “But monsieur knows very well for himself!”

“Monsieur knows that you are very confusing—­even for a maitre d’hotel.  We were speaking of the present chatelaine of Quesnay, Mademoiselle Ward.  I have never heard of Madame d’Armand.”

“Monsieur is serious?”

“Truly!” I answered, making bold to quote his shibboleth.

“Then monsieur has truly much to live for.  Truly!” he chuckled openly, convinced that he had obtained a marked advantage in a conflict of wits, shaking his big head from side to side with an exasperating air of knowingness.  “Ah, truly!  When that lady drives by, some day, in the carriage from the chateau—­eh?  Then monsieur will see how much he has to live for.  Truly, truly, truly!”