The Red Cockade

When we reached the terraced walk, which my father made a little before his death, and which, running under the windows at the rear of the Château, separates the house from the new lawn, St. Alais looked round with eyes of scarcely-veiled contempt. "What have you done with the garden?" he asked, his lip curling. "My father removed it to the other side of the house," I answered. "Out of sight?" "Yes," I said; "it is beyond the rose garden." "English fashion!" he answered with a shrug and a polite sneer. "And you prefer to see all this grass from your windows?" "Yes," I said, "I do." "Ah! And that plantation? It hides the village, I suppose, from the house?" "Yes."