THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
in the rear; then followed bronzes that had taken two men to place on their pedestals; pictures in heavy frames; a harp muffled in a water-proof cover, which became a toy in his hands; even the piano went out on the run and was slid along the porch and down the steps, and, with the aid of Gaston and another fisherman, whirled under cover.
The fight now was against time, Lemois indicating the most valuable articles. Soon the first floor was entirely cleared except for some heavy pieces of furniture, and a dash was made upstairs for madame’s bedroom and boudoir, filled with choice miniatures, larger portraits, and the little things she loved and lived with. The pillows were now torn from the beds, emptied, and every conceivable kind of small precious thing—silver-topped toilet articles, an ivory crucifix, bits of Dresden china—all the odds and ends a woman of quality, taste, and refinement uses and must have—were dumped one after another into the pillow-sacks and carried carefully to shelter. Then followed the books and rare manuscripts.
Herbert, who, between every trip to the garage or to the crowd of willing workers out-