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Fortunately for us in Moret, the Mayor and Curé are friends. We depend more or less on the Curé’s clock—most dilapidated of dials—whose solemn summons at ten on Sunday bids us attend High Mass; whose brisker chimes at the same hour on Tuesday set us hastening towards the market. Indeed, in our hotel, disdainful of its dubious timepiece, we wait for the ten strokes and after counting them join the villagers outside: knots of villagers, rows of villagers, solitary villagers, but all of them fresh, immaculate. Each woman wears a print dress, or a print skirt and camisole, a spotted handkerchief tied in a knot at the top of her head. Each man has drawn on a clean cotton shirt and his newest coat, or a blouse; his tie invariably is bright. Each girl is clad lightly, charmingly, and has becomingly arranged her hair. As for us... well, we do not seem shabby beside a painter, a Parisian in “le boating” costume: our scarf is as silken as theirs, our waistcoat is equally white and piqué, but our cane is undoubtedly handsomer, and we think we dangle it more elegantly.