property extremely well, made the tour of the house, woods and garden
every day with her "régisseur." W. had the highest opinion of her
business capacity--said she knew the exact market value of everything
on the place--from an old tree that must be cut down for timber to the
cheeses the farmer's wife made and sold at the Soissons market.

She suggested that I should come upstairs to leave my heavy coat. We
went up a broad stone staircase, the walls covered with pictures and
engravings; one beautiful portrait of her daughter, the Marquise de
Chaponay, on horseback. There were handsome carved chests and china
vases on the landing, which opened on a splendid long gallery, very
high and light--bedrooms on one side, on the other big windows (ten or
twelve, I should think) looking over the park and gardens. She took me
to a large, comfortable room, bright wood fire blazing, and a pretty
little dressing-room opening out of it, furnished in a gay,
old-fashioned pattern of chintz. She said breakfast would be ready in
ten minutes--supposed I could find my way down, and left me to my own
devices.

I found the family assembled in the drawing-room; four women: Mme. de
Courval and her daughter, the Marquise de Chaponay, a tall handsome
woman, and two other ladies of a certain age; I did not catch their
names, but they looked like all the old ladies one always sees in a
country house in France. I should think they were cousins or habituées
of the château, as they each had their embroidery frame and one a
little dog. I am haunted by the embroidery frames--I am sure I shall
end my days in a black cap, bending over a frame making portières or a
piano-cover.

We breakfasted in a large square dining-room running straight through