Silver Moraine his garden at argenteuil

Renoir's tone takes on a babbling quality to her unrefined ear and confusion claims her expression. Her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth as she mentally attempts to repeat the words he's spoken in an effort to glean understanding, but all it sounds like to her is gibberish. Beautiful gibberish, for there's something lovely about the language the fair man uses, but gibberish nonetheless.

He speaks something else in the same tone, and then utters again words she can understand. As he speaks she glances over a narrow shoulder at the maple wood and she nods. "It's my favourite place in this world," she agrees. Once, her plan was to reclaim Redtail Rise if ever it recovered from the fire, but now she knows she won't bother. The maples are home for her now. "Do you have a place you love so much?" she asks him conversationally.