Vidal was, you see, a great poet and it was not
proper to treat a great poet with indifference.
So Peire Vidal declared himself Emperor of Jerusalem or
somewhere and the husband had to kneel down and kiss his feet
though La Louve wouldn't. And Peire set sail in a rowing boat
with four companions to redeem the Holy Sepulchre. And they
struck on a rock somewhere, and, at great expense, the husband
had to fit out an expedition to fetch him back. And Peire Vidal fell
all over the Lady's bed while the husband, who was a most
ferocious warrior, remonstrated some more about the courtesy
that is due to great poets. But I suppose La Louve was the more
ferocious of the two. Anyhow, that is all that came of it. Isn't that
a story?
You haven't an idea of the queer old-fashionedness of Florence's
aunts--the Misses Hurlbird, nor yet of her uncle. An
extraordinarily lovable man, that Uncle John. Thin, gentle, and
with a "heart" that made his life very much what Florence's
afterwards became. He didn't reside at Stamford; his home was in
Waterbury where the watches come from. He had a factory there
which, in our queer American way, would change its functions
almost from year to year.
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