I mean he shall grow up under wholesome American
influences--not foreign."

"Not foreign," she repeated gravely. She was silent a
while. "I have thought much of it all lately," she said
at last. "It will be wholesome for Jacques on your farm.
Horses--dogs---- Your mother will love him. She can't
help it. She--I acted like a beast to that woman,
George. I'll say that. She hit me hard. But she has
good traits. She is not unlike my own mother."

George said nothing. God forbid that he should tell her,
even by a look, that she and her mother were of a caste
different from his own.

But he was bored to the soul by the difference; he was
tired of her ignorances, which she showed every minute,
of her ghastly, unclean knowledges--which she never
showed.

They came into the courtyard of the Chateau de la Motte,
the ancient castle of the Breton dukes, which is now an
inn. The red sunset flamed up behind the sad little town
and its gray old houses and spires massed on the hill,
and the black river creeping by. George's eyes kindled
at the sombre picture.

"In this very court," he said, "Constance stood when she
summoned the States of Brittany to save her boy Arthur
from King John."