There may be ways of dining more delicious than out in the open air
under the vines in the cool of the afternoon, with Lucette, in her
whitest of aprons, flitting about, and madame garnishing the dishes each
in turn, and there may be better bottles of honest red wine to be found
up and down this world of care than "Château Lamonte, '62," but I have
not yet discovered them.

Lucette serves the coffee in a little cup, and leaves the Roquefort and
the cigarettes on the table just as the sun is sinking behind the hill
skirting the railroad. While I am blowing rings through the grape leaves
over my head a quick noise is heard across the stream. Lucette runs past
me through the garden, picking up her oars as she goes.

"_Oui, mon père._ I am coming."

It is monsieur from his day's work in the city.

"Who is here?" I hear him say as he mounts the terrace steps. "Oh, the
painter--good!"

"Ah, _mon ami_. So you must see the willows once more. Have you not
tired of them yet?" Then, seating himself, "I hope madame has taken good
care of you. What, the '62? Ah, I remember I told you."

When it is quite dark he joins me under the leaves, bringing a second
bottle a little better corked he thinks, and the talk drifts into his
early life.

"What year was that, monsieur?" I asked.