"Haven't you noticed it before?" said Germaine.

"No; the broken glass must have fallen outside," said Sonia.

The noise of the opening of the door drew their attention from the
window. Two figures were advancing towards them--a short, round,
tubby man of fifty-five, red-faced, bald, with bright grey eyes,
which seemed to be continually dancing away from meeting the eyes of
any other human being. Behind him came a slim young man, dark and
grave. For all the difference in their colouring, it was clear that
they were father and son: their eyes were set so close together. The
son seemed to have inherited, along with her black eyes, his
mother's nose, thin and aquiline; the nose of the father started
thin from the brow, but ended in a scarlet bulb eloquent of an
exhaustive acquaintance with the vintages of the world.

Germaine rose, looking at them with an air of some surprise and
uncertainty: these were not her friends, the Du Buits.

The elder man, advancing with a smiling bonhomie, bowed, and said in
an adenoid voice, ingratiating of tone: "I'm M. Charolais, young
ladies--M. Charolais--retired brewer--chevalier of the Legion of
Honour--landowner at Rennes. Let me introduce my son." The young man
bowed awkwardly. "We came from Rennes this morning, and we lunched
at Kerlor's farm."

"Shall I order tea for them?" whispered Sonia.

"Gracious, no!" said Germaine sharply under her breath; then,
louder, she said to M. Charolais, "And what is your object in