Joan Smith Read Online Free Page A

prescription.
    “He seems very nice,” I told her when we were alone.
    “He is the oldest friend I have in Hampshire. He was Edward’s good friend when we got married. He married some cousin of Edward’s first wife. Edward was best man at the wedding, which was well before my time. Walter would have been our best man as well, except that we got married at Bath, where we met. I was there with Grandmother Ford, Valerie. I wonder if there is any chance of contacting her tomorrow night.”
    “We shall see.”
    It would be misleading to say I had grave doubts on that score. I hadn’t a doubt in the world it was all a bag of moonshine, but the experience would be interesting. I would try it—once.
     

Chapter Three
     
    In the morning, I tried another new experience: sleeping in till nine o’clock and having cocoa in bed. It was marvelous. I mean to try it every day while I am here at Troy Fenners. My aunt was locked up in her scriptorium when I came down for breakfast. I sat at the table alone, but before two eggs were consumed, I was joined by Pierre St. Clair. He was a perfect little Napoleon of a man in so far as height goes, but not nearly so bellicose. In fact, he was charming, and not bad-looking either, barring his small stature. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, swarthy-skinned, elegant in the extreme, stopping just a shadow short of being foppish. He advanced toward me at a leisurely waddle, caused by the outward turning of his toes.
    “I hear you are the Miss Ford,” he said, performing a polite bow at the side of my chair.
    “You must be the Pierre St. Clair,” I replied, offering him my hand. I mean to be quite insistent in future on always shaking everyone’s hand instead of curtseying. At twenty-one, I think I might take this privilege to myself without appearing brash.
    The Pierre did not seem to know what to make of my gesture. He put his other hand over mine, and stood there, smiling and nodding for several seconds, while my eggs turned cold. “Won’t you have a chair, Mr. St. Clair?” I suggested.
    “I have many chairs,” he smiled, looking around the table where he had, to be sure, a choice of eleven. Still, he was strangely reluctant to select one.
    “Do sit down. Have you had breakfast?” I asked.
    “I have had the coffee. I shall have more the coffee, to keep you companies.”
    “How nice.”
    “You will pour me the coffee,” he said, but in a polite, deferential tone.
    After a brief consideration, I gave in and poured. “Also of the cream and sugar,” was his next suggestion.
    “Help yourself,” I said, nodding toward them. One can humor a foreigner only so far.
    “Yes, very help yourself,” he agreed, sitting down beside me and adding an unconscionable quantity of cream and sugar to his cup. “I am happied to make you welcome to Trois Fen ê tres,” he went on.
    “I am happy to be here.”
    “I also. Tante Louise is the charming hostess, when she is here. Maybe I adopt her to me.”
    “Plan to make a long stay of it, do you?”
    “Only for the coffee. Tante Louise is not the true aunt, you understood. She is the cousin.”
    “She is my aunt. ”
    “She is my cousin.”
    “Quite.”
    “Precisely. The Sinclair, you comprehend, is the St. Clair, in bastardized English. Mr. Sinclair, he tells me this. I meet many bastardized St. Clairs at Wight. It is the island where I am gone with Mr. Welland Sinclair.”
    “Yes, so I understand.”
    “It is not difficult to comprehend. They are all my cousins. I have many English cousins. I too am very English. In France, I am took always for an English.”
    “I don’t think you’ll have that difficulty in England, Mr. St. Clair.”
    “Call me Sinclair. It is better. When at Rome, do like the Italians do, as we say in English.”
    “Yes, we say that all the time.”
    “The coffee, he is too very much sweet,” was his next attempt at communication.
    “He is darling, isn’t he?”
    “Too sweet darling,” he decided, shoving