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“Why don’t you want to go to Paris?” asked the youthful father. “It is surely not only the chance of some wolf-hunting?”

Marguerite replied at once: “The wolves naturally have a great deal to do with it, but even barring them, I should much rather remain here—at home.”

“Isn’t the Hôtel de Plenhöel home, too? After all, it has been ours for many, many generations, which should lend it some of the charm that the old place here has for us. Besides, all our relatives and most of our friends are already in Paris, or will be there soon. Among others your beloved Laurence, who, by the way, is, as a Russian Princess, certainly an astounding success. Poor old Basil! I’ll be glad to see him again, although I still can’t help being sure he was a fool to marry her.”

Of a truth “Charybdis” must have been in a sour mood that morning, for at this point he cut such a caper that “Antinoüs” interrupted his discourse to advise Marguerite to land her team in the ditch before worse happened, and have done with it! The sarcasm, however, apparently did not touch her, for she gave no sign of annoyance, and as soon as the horses had resumed a more dignified allure, he went on, quietly: