more in the garden at the back of the hotel.
CHAPTER II.
In the Salon.
He had left it in the morning dewy, silent, almost deserted; he found it
full of gaiety and life and movement, talking, laughing, and smoking
going on, pretty bright dresses glancing amongst the trees, children
swinging under the great branches, the flickering lights and shadows
dancing on their white frocks and curly heads, white-capped bonnes
dangling their _bébés_, papas drinking coffee and liqueurs at the little
tables, mammas talking the latest Liége scandal, and discussing the
newest Parisian fashions. The table-d'hôte dinner was just over, and
everybody had come out to enjoy the air, till it was time for the dancing
to begin.
The glass door leading into the passage that ran through the house
stood wide open; so did the great hall door at the other end; and
Graham could see the courtyard full of sunshine, the iron railing
separating it from the road, the river gleaming, the bridge and railway
station beyond, and then again the background of hills. He passed
through the house, and went out into the courtyard. Here were more
people, more gay dresses, gossip, cigars, and coffee; more benches and
tables set in the scanty shade of the formal round-topped trees that
stood in square green boxes round the paved quadrangle. Outside in the
road, a boy with a monkey stood grinding a melancholy organ; the sun
seemed setting to the pretty pathetic tune, which mingled not
inharmoniously with the hum of voices and sudden bursts of laughter;
the children were jumping and dancing to their lengthening shadows,
but with a measured glee, so as not to disturb too seriously the
elaborate combination of starch and ribbon and shining plaits which
composed their fête day toilettes. A small tottering thing of two years
old, emulating its companions of larger growth, toppled over and fell
lamenting at Graham's feet as he came out. He picked it up, and set it
straight again, and then, to console it, found a sou, and showed it how
to put it into the monkey's brown skinny hand, till the child screamed
with delight instead of woe. The lad had a kind, loving heart, and was
tender to all helpless appealing things, and more especially to little
children.
He stood watching the pretty glowing scene for a few minutes, and then
went in to his solitary _réchauffé_ dinner. Coming out again half an
hour or so later, he found everything changed. The monkey boy and his
organ were gone, the sun had set, twilight and mists were gathering in
the valley, and the courtyard was deserted; but across the grey dusk,
light was streaming through the muslin window curtains of the salon,
the noise of laughter, and voices, and music came from within now,
breaking the evening stillness; for everyone had gone indoors to the
salon, where the gas was lighted, chairs and tables pushed out of the
way, and Mademoiselle Cécile, the fat good- natured daughter of the
_propriétaire_, already seated at the piano. The hall outside fills with
grinning waiters and maids, who have their share of the fun as they
look in through the open door. Round go the dancers, sliding and
twirling on the smooth polished floor, and Mademoiselle Cécile's
fingers fly indefatigably over the keys, as she sits nodding her head to
the music, and smiling as each familiar face glides past her.
Horace, who, after lingering awhile in the courtyard, had come indoors
like the rest of the world, stood apart at the further end of the room,
sufficiently entertained with looking on at the scene, which had the
charm of novelty to his English eyes, and commenting to himself on
the appearance of the dancers.
"But you do wrong not to dance, dear Monsieur, I assure you," said his
Belgian friend, coming up to him at the end of a polka, with the elderly
Countess, who with her dingy lilac barége gown exchanged for a
dingier lilac silk, and her sandy hair fuzzier than ever, had been
dancing vigorously. "Mademoiselle Cécile's music is delicious," he
continued, "it positively inspires one; let me persuade you to attempt
just one little dance."
"Indeed, I would rather look on," said Horace; "I can listen to
Mademoiselle Cécile's music all the same, and I do not care much for
dancing, as I told you; besides, I don't know anyone here."
"If that be all," cried the other eagerly, "I can introduce you to half a
dozen partners in a moment; that lady that I have just been dancing
with, for instance, will be charmed----"
"Stop, I entreat you," said the young Englishman, in alarm, as his friend
was about to rush off; "I cannot indeed--I assure you I am a very bad
dancer; I
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