. . . He looked so funny,
standing there . . . so small . . . and yet actually, I suppose,
taller than the late King Louis Quatorze by three inches.
. . . Somewhere outside on a terrace a band was playing things
from the _Mariage de Figaro_--Figaro, at Versailles of all
places! . . . In short the world had gone pretty mad for a
moment, and for that moment I felt that, in this _bizarrerie_ of
contrast it might dignify our quarrel if Farrell died amid such
magnificent surroundings. . . . But I conquered the impulse all
right: and this, the third time, was the easiest."
"I got him away to the Little Trianon: and there in its gardens--
as you would lay in the shade a patient suffering from
sunstroke--I conducted him to a seat under the spring boughs
beside the little lake that reflects the Hameau. He stared on
the green turf at our feet, and across at the grouped rustic
buildings, all as pretty as paint, and came out of his stupor
with a long sigh.
"'A-ah!' he murmured.
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