The conversation was general, with Fox quietly supplying translations when they were needed. And since Hadley was the guest from abroad, the whole table demanded, in the most friendly way, to know all about him.

Where was he from? his hostess asked. He explained that he’d been brought up in several places because his father was a professor and had moved around several universities before retiring recently to Connecticut.

“A professor of what?” asked Aunt Éloïse.

“Of Latin.”

“Your family were always academic?” she asked hopefully.

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “My grandfather made a pretty good fortune in the dry goods business, but my father liked to study, so he followed an academic career.”

“Dry goods, you say?” Gérard Blanchard asked from down the table. “Wholesale or retail?”

“Both.”

“So, your family is like ours,” Gérard said with approval. “Solid.”

Aunt Éloïse looked faintly irritated, but Frank smiled.

“We like to think so,” he answered cheerfully.

Aunt Éloïse wanted to know what had caused him to study art, and he explained that his mother was a talented musician and artist.

“I went to a small university called Union College, pretty much in the area where the Hudson River School of painters found their inspiration,” he explained. “Scenery of amazing grandeur. That as much as anything got me started.” He suddenly turned to look up the table to Marc. “You told me Americans have difficulty pronouncing French, Marc. So let’s see how you get on in American. My university is in a little city on the Mohawk River called Schenectady. Who here can pronounce that?”

After everyone at the table had tried, he shook his head.

“Fox got pretty close, but he’s English. The rest of you: nowhere near!”

His French hosts seemed to enjoy this very much. There were cries of genial protest: “It’s impossible. It cannot be done.”

“But why did you come to France, Monsieur Hadley?” Marie ventured, a little shyly.

“Impressionists, mademoiselle. The French Impressionists became all the rage in America, and so every ambitious young painter in the United States wants to come to France now. I guess I’m just one of a tribe.”

“It’s true,” Marc informed them. “Soon I believe there will be more American Impressionists in France than French ones. But I’ve seen Hadley’s work, and he has a lot of talent.”

“You study and paint, Monsieur Hadley,” de Cygne remarked, “yet you look to me like a man who enjoys outdoor pursuits as well.”

Frank smiled.

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do after I left Union College, so I went west for a year and worked on a ranch. Loved it. Big open spaces, and I like physical work. By the end of it, though, I was sure I wanted to study painting.”

“So you ride?”

“I do.”

“Western?”

“I use an English saddle in New England, but I like to ride western. You ride?”