There are some very odd Americans here, who keep throwing Harold into fits of laughter.  One is a dreadful little man who is always sitting over the fire, and talking about the colour of the sky.  I don’t believe he ever saw the sky except through the window—­pane.  The other day he took hold of my frock (that green one you thought so nice at Homburg) and told me that it reminded him of the texture of the Devonshire turf.  And then he talked for half an hour about the Devonshire turf; which I thought such a very extraordinary subject.  Harold says he is mad.  It is very strange to be living in this way with people one doesn’t know.  I mean that one doesn’t know as one knows them in England.

The other Americans (beside the madman) are two girls, about my own age, one of whom is rather nice.  She has a mother; but the mother is always sitting in her bedroom, which seems so very odd.  I should like mamma to ask them to Kingscote, but I am afraid mamma wouldn’t like the mother, who is rather vulgar.  The other girl is rather vulgar too, and is travelling about quite alone.  I think she is a kind of schoolmistress; but the other girl (I mean the nicer one, with the mother) tells me she is more respectable than she seems.  She has, however, the most extraordinary opinions—­wishes to do away with the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that Arthur should have Kingscote when papa dies, etc.  I don’t see what it signifies to her that poor Arthur should come into the property, which will be so delightful—­except for papa dying.  But Harold says she is mad.  He chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he is so immensely clever that she can’t answer him, though she is rather clever too.

There is also a Frenchman, a nephew, or cousin, or something, of the person of the house, who is extremely nasty; and a German professor, or doctor, who eats with his knife and is a great bore.  I am so very sorry about giving up my visit.  I am afraid you will never ask me again.

CHAPTER VII

FROM LEON VERDIER, IN PARIS, TO PROSPER GOBAIN, AT LILLE.

September 28th.

My Dear Prosper—­It is a long time since I have given you of my news, and I don’t know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory.  I suppose it is that when we are happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our exaltations and depressions, and je t’eu ai trop dit, dans le bon temps, mon gros Prosper, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel that I can count upon your sympathy to-day. Nous en sommes nous flanquees des confidences—­in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure poindre a l’horizon was of the pleasure I should have in relating it to the great Prosper.  As I tell thee, I am happy; decidedly, I am happy, and from this affirmation I fancy you can construct the rest.  Shall I help thee a little?  Take three adorable girls . . . three, my good Prosper—­the mystic number—­neither more nor less.  Take them and place thy insatiable little Leon in the midst of them!  Is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the motives of my felicity?