It was an unusual procession that filed down the garden walk a few
minutes later. First came Berthé, in her black dress and white cap,
holding a lamp high above her head, and screwing her forehead into a
mass of wrinkles as she peered out into the surrounding darkness. After
her came madame, holding up her dress and stepping daintily along in her
high-heeled little slippers. Joyce brought up the rear, stumbling along
in the darkness of madame's large shadow, so absorbed in her troubles
that she did not see the amused expression on the face of the grinning
satyr in the fountain.

Eve, looking across at Adam, seemed to wink one of her stony eyes, as
much as to say, "Humph! Somebody else has been getting into trouble.
There's more kinds of forbidden fruit than one; pony-cart cushions, for
instance."

Berthé opened the door, and madame stepped inside the carriage-house.
With her skirts held high in both hands, she moved around among the
wreck of the cushions, turning over a bit with the toe of her slipper
now and then.

Madame wore velvet dinner-gowns, it is true, and her house was elegant
in its fine old furnishings bought generations ago; but only her
dressmaker and herself knew how many times those gowns had been ripped
and cleaned and remodelled. It was only constant housewifely skill that
kept the antique furniture repaired and the ancient brocade hangings
from falling into holes. None but a French woman, trained in petty
economies, could have guessed how little money and how much thought was
spent in keeping her table up to its high standard of excellence.