Marseillaise whenever the nation's in danger can afford to be nice to Léon, it's no more than fitting that she, Clothilde Casimir, wife of another national institution who, alas, hasn't yet got the Légion d'Honneur but who, God willing or God induced, soon will, should at least be particularly civil to him.
"He doesn't know you've come," she said, when 'Rosalie had deposited the tray and departed. Grover had discovered that she had a way of referring to her husband as He,—as though he were of the divinity. "He is working on an important canvas today and I thought it best not to disturb him. If we are lucky he will come up before long. He has had no lunch."
It was appalling to think that they might have to sit in this beastly candy-box of a room till dusk, on the offchance that the fires of genius might burn low. But the droop in Vaudreuil's eyelids was a signal that Madame was talking for publication.
And in point of fact scarcely a half hour had passed when Casimir was seen in the court below, emerging from his studio accompanied by a great overgrown dog to whom he was talking with cheerful animation. His steps were soon heard on the stairway, and Mme. Casimir, after calling out a swift injunction to Rosalie to prepare lunch for four, motioned Grover to another chair.
"He will be tired," she explained in a hushed tone, "and he always prefers that seat. He won't even let me have it repaired for fear they will make the
