Jack Marche tucked his gun under his arm and turned away along the overgrown wood-road that stretched from the De Nesville forests to the more open woods of Morteyn.
    He walked slowly, puffing his pipe, pondering over his encounter with the châtelaine of the Château de Nesville.  He thought, too, of the old Vicomte de Morteyn and his gentle wife, of the little house-party of which he and his sister Dorothy made two, of Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh, their youthful and totally irresponsible chaperons on the journey from Paris to Morteyn.
    "They're lunching on the Lisse," he thought.  "I'll not get a bite if Ricky is there."
    When Madame de Morteyn wrote to Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh on the first of July, she asked them to chaperon her two nieces and some other pretty girls in the American colony whom they might wish to bring, for a month, to Morteyn.
    "The devil!" said Sir Thorald when he read the letter; "am I to pick out the girls, Molly?" (Lorraine: A Romance, Chambers, 1898).