Gerhardt and Claude Wheeler alighted from a taxi before the open
gates of a square-roofed, solid-looking house, where all the
shutters on the front were closed, and the tops of many trees
showed above the garden wall. They crossed a paved court and
rang at the door. An old valet admitted the young men, and took
them through a wide hall to the salon, which opened on the
garden. Madame and Mademoiselle would be down very soon. David
went to one of the long windows and looked out. "They have kept
it up, in spite of everything. It was always lovely here."
The garden was spacious,--like a little park. On one side was a
tennis court, on the other a fountain, with a pool and
water-lilies. The north wall was hidden by ancient yews; on the
south two rows of plane trees, cut square, made a long arbour. At
the back of the garden there were fine old lindens. The gravel
walks wound about beds of gorgeous autumn flowers; in the rose
garden, small white roses were still blooming, though the leaves
were already red.
Two ladies entered the drawing-room. The mother was short, plump,
and rosy, with strong, rather masculine features and yellowish
white hair. The tears flashed into her eyes as David bent to kiss
her hand, and she embraced him and touched both his cheeks with
her lips.
"Et vous, vous aussi!" she murmured, touching the coat of his
uniform with her fingers. There was but a moment of softness. She
gathered herself up like an old general, Claude thought, as he
stood watching the group from the window, drew her daughter
forward, and asked David whether he recognized the little girl
with whom he used to play. Mademoiselle Claire was not at all
like her mother; slender, dark, dressed in a white costume de
tennis and an apple green hat with black ribbons, she looked very
modern and casual and unconcerned. She was already telling David
she was glad he had arrived early, as now they would be able to
have a game of tennis before tea. Maman would bring her knitting
to the garden and watch them. This last suggestion relieved
Claude's apprehension that he might be left alone with his
hostess. When David called him and presented him to the ladies,
Mlle. Claire gave him a quick handshake, and said she would be
very glad to try him out on the court as soon as she had beaten
David. They would find tennis shoes in their room,--a collection
of shoes, for the feet of all nations; her brother's, some that
his Russian friend had forgotten when he hurried off to be
mobilized, and a pair lately left by an English officer who was
quartered on them. She and her mother would wait in the garden.
She rang for the old valet.
The Americans found themselves in a large room upstairs, where
two modern iron beds stood out conspicuous among heavy mahogany
bureaus and desks and dressing-tables, stuffed chairs and velvet
carpets and dull red brocade window hangings. David went at once
into the little dressing-room and began to array himself for the
tennis court. Two suits of flannels and a row of soft shirts hung
there on the wall.
"Aren't you going to change?" he asked, noticing that Claude
stood stiff and unbending by the window, looking down into the
garden. "Why should I?" said Claude scornfully. "I don't play
tennis. I never had a racket in my hand."
"Too bad. She used to play very well, though she was only a
youngster then." Gerhardt was regarding his legs in trousers two
inches too short for him. "How everything has changed, and yet
how everything is still the same! It's like coming back to places
in dreams."
"They don't give you much time to dream, I should say!" Claude
remarked.
"Fortunately!"
"Explain to the girl that I don't play, will you? I'll be down
later."
"As you like."
Claude stood in the window, watching Gerhardt's bare head and
Mlle. Claire's green hat and long brown arm go bounding about
over the court.
When Gerhardt came to change before tea, he found his fellow
officer standing before his bag, which was open, but not
unpacked.
"What's the matter? Feeling shellshock again?"
"Not exactly." Claude bit his lip. "The fact is, Dave, I don't
feel just comfortable here. Oh, the people are all right. But
I'm out of place. I'm going to pull out and get a billet
somewhere else, and let you visit your friends in peace. Why
should I be here? These people don't keep a hotel."
"They very nearly do, from what they've been telling me. They've
had a string of Scotch and English quartered on them. They like
it, too,-or have the good manners to pretend they do. Of course,
you'll do as you like, but you'll hurt their feelings and put me
in an awkward position. To be frank, I don't see how you can go
away without being distinctly rude."
Claude stood looking down at the contents of his bag in an
irresolute attitude. Catching a glimpse of his face in one of the
big mirrors, Gerhardt saw that he looked perplexed and miserable.
His flash of temper died, and he put his hand lightly on his
friend's shoulder.
"Come on, Claude! This is too absurd. You don't even have to
dress, thanks to your uniform,--and you don't have to talk, since
you're not supposed to know the language. I thought you'd like
coming here. These people have had an awfully rough time; can't
you admire their pluck?"
"Oh, yes, I do! It's awkward for me, though." Claude pulled off
his coat and began to brush his hair vigorously. "I guess I've
always been more afraid of the French than of the Germans. It
takes courage to stay, you understand. I want to run."
"But why? What makes you want to?"
"Oh, I don't know! Something in the house, in the atmosphere."
"Something disagreeable?"
"No. Something agreeable."