get into the carriage, lifting the lacy flounces of her petticoat with an adorable gesture.
"Are you coming, Mother? Good-by, Peasant!"
Cousin Lydia, all out of breath, hoisted herself into the carriage. The step creaked under her weight, and the carriage itself leaned down on her side.
Finally she was installed. Gina's nervous little gloved hand let down the window. The footman, hat in hand, opened the folding doors of the entrance hall and saluted the ladies. She had gone!
It was necessary also to give some attention to the outfitting of young Paridael, who was to be sent far away, to an international college, from which he would not return until he had finished his studies.
Cousin Lydia and the inevitable Felicité made inroads upon the wardrobe of Monsieur Dobouziez. With the minute exactitude of archaeologists they inspected, piece by piece, the togs that "Monsieur" no longer wore, passing them from hand to hand, weighing them, fingering the material, deliberating together. Herself won over by the spirit of gayety that filled the house, Madame Dobouziez declared herself ready to sacrifice, in order to complete Laurent's outfit, one of her husband's coats, almost new, or an overcoat that was rather more out of fashion than worn out.
But Felicité invariably found the clothes too good for a boy so negligent about his belongings.
"Really, madame, the boots, cap and leather trousers of one of our workmen would suit him better."
Cousin Lydia tore a promise from Laurent, almost upon his oath, to take good care of his clothes. It was "you are sure, now?" and "you'll do better, won't you?" as if they had been confiding to his care the seamless tunic of the Saviour. They brought it to
