Picard and Suzanne even felt a touch of their fantastic spirits.  Suzanne from the north of France, powerful in her prejudices, a Frenchwoman to the core, had viewed John from the first with a distinct hostility, softening slowly, very slowly, as time passed.  It was not that she disliked his voice, his figure, his manner, or anything about him.  He was a brave and true young man and he had rendered great service to the contemporary house of Lannes, but he was not a Frenchman.

But it seemed to Suzanne, as she served the courses and watched with an eye which nothing escaped, that Monsieur Jean the Scott was becoming a Frenchman—­almost at least.  She had seen young Frenchmen act very much as the young American was acting.  The Frenchman, too, would lean forward to speak when the girl to whom he was speaking was as lovely as her Mademoiselle Julie.  No, that was impossible!  None other was as lovely as her Mademoiselle Julie.  The glow that illumined his face was just the same, quite of the best French manner, too.  She had seen people who were people and she knew.  She admitted, too, that he was very handsome, with the slenderness of youth, but strong and muscular, and above all, his face was good.

Antoine with the napkin over his arm did most of the serving, and being a man the conventional differences did not seem to him so great as they did to his daughter.

“A handsome pair,” he said to her.

But while willing to admit much to herself, Suzanne would not admit it to her father.

“Aye, handsome,” she replied in a fierce whisper, “but not well matched.  He comes from an uncivilized continent on the other side of the world, and soon he’ll be going back there.  I would that her brother, Monsieur Philip, were here where he ought to be.  Perhaps he’d be foolish, too, because he likes the strange American, but it would relieve us of care.”

“But America is not a barbarous continent, Suzanne, at least some of it is not.  I have heard that in the eastern part of their country many of them act very much as we do, and we have seen those in Paris who appear to be quite civilized.  And Suzanne, often they are rich, very rich.  Before I left Paris the second time I made it a point to inquire about this young man, and I discovered that he had an immensely wealthy uncle, whose sole heir he is.”

“Ah!” said Suzanne, making a long intake of the breath.  It was easier than she had thought for John to become French.

“And the fortunes of the house of Lannes are moderate now, as you and I know quite well, Suzanne,” continued the wise Antoine.  “Surely it must have occurred to Madame her mother, when our little Mademoiselle Julie was yet but a beautiful young child, that she might make a great marriage some day.  In this world of ours, Suzanne, many millions of good francs should not be allowed to escape from France.”

“It is so, my father,” said Suzanne.  “France will need numberless millions when this war is over.  Here is the vinegar for the salad.  Not too much.  Mademoiselle Julie likes only a little of it.  What fortune it was to find a hotel furnished with everything!  The faint sighing sound that still comes on the wind, is it not that of the guns, my father?”