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For night has fallen, the tints of purple grow brown and fade away. The river goes to rest in the soft, vague shadow; scarcely, at long intervals, a remnant glimpse is reflected from a slanting wave; obscurity drowns everything in its vapory dust; the drowsy eye vainly searches in this mist some visible point, and distinguishes at last, like a dim star, the lighthouse of Cordouan.
It thus came about that sundry persons of title and importance who had been invited to come to the Villa Cordouan after dinner for a little music found the English banker complacently installed in the largest chair, with a shirt-front evading the constraint of an abnormal waistcoat, and a sleepy chin drooping surreptitiously toward it. "He is my banker from Paris," whispered Mrs. St.
"About five knots, but the wind is getting up. There was scarcely a breath when I turned in, at ten o'clock." "How far do you call it to the mouth of the river?" "It is about forty miles to the tower of Cordouan. Once past that, we reckon we are at sea." "Eight hours going, at five knots. It is nearly twelve now. It will be daylight when we get there."
It thus came about that sundry persons of title and importance who had been invited to come to the Villa Cordouan after dinner for a little music found the English banker complacently installed in the largest chair, with a shirt-front evading the constraint of an abnormal waistcoat, and a sleepy chin drooping surreptitiously toward it. "He is my banker from Paris," whispered Mrs. St.
Has not this old timber house weathered all the gales o' last winter, and d'ye think it's goin' to come down before a summer breeze? Why, there's a lighthouse in France, called the Tour de Cordouan, which rises light out o' the sea, an' I'm told it had some fearful gales to try its metal when it was buildin'. So don't go an' git narvous."
Pierre Lawrence to one and another. "He knows nothing, and so far as I am aware, is no politician merely a banker, you understand. Leave him alone and he will go to sleep." During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantly at the Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music and light refreshment for her friends on several occasions.
Scarcely had they passed the light-house of Cordouan, glittering in the twilight of a lovely evening, when they were already friends. Already this fresh and delicate plant, interesting as an exile, as a flower transplanted from its own soil, as a child torn from its mother, became a mutual object of attraction.
I am quite determined," she answered, gaily, for she was before her time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate speech as cock-sure. And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself at the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting alone in the veranda. "Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices.
Has not this old timber house weathered all the gales o' last winter, and d'ye think it's goin' to come down before a summer breeze? Why, there's a lighthouse in France, called the Tour de Cordouan, which rises right out o' the sea, an' I'm told it had some fearful gales to try its metal when it was buildin'. So don't go an' git narvous."
Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified, and turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk with her. "I will be frank with you," she said. "I telegraphed to tell you that the Villa Cordouan is for the moment unfortunately filled with guests." "What matter? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told the driver of my carriage to wait for further orders.
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