“I see you have entered into my secrets,” said he, “but how was it done?”

So I told him how⁠—the commission on which I had been sent, the storm which had detained me, the abruptness of the lady, the kindness of the priest.

“As I sat waiting for the rain to cease, Père Silas whiled away the time with a story,” I said.

“A story! What story? Père Silas is no romancist.”

“Shall I tell Monsieur the tale?”

“Yes: begin at the beginning. Let me hear some of Miss Lucy’s French⁠—her best or her worst⁠—I don’t much care which: let us have a good poignée of barbarisms, and a bounteous dose of the insular accent.”