of
father, of that period with the high stock and tight-buttoned coat. The
light was lovely--so soft and warm--in the drawing-room, and as there
were no lace curtains or vitrages, and the silk curtains were drawn back
from the high plate glass windows, we seemed to be sitting in the park
under the trees. They gave us tea and the good little cakes, "St.
Pierre," a sort of "sable," for which all the coast is famous.

The drive home was enchanting, with a lovely view from the top of the
hill; a beautiful blue sea at our feet and the turrets and pointed roofs
of the Villers houses taking every possible colour from the sunset
clouds.

We went back once more to a the dansant given for her seventeen-year-old
daughter. It was a lovely afternoon and the place looked charming--the
gates open--carriages and autos arriving in every direction--people came
from a great distance as with the autos no one hesitates to undertake a
drive of a hundred kilometres. The young people danced in the
drawing-room--Madame d'Y---- had taken out all the furniture, and the
parents and older people sat about on the terrace where there were
plenty of seats and little tea-tables. The dining-room--with an abundant
buffet--was always full; one arrives with a fine appetite after whirling
for two or three hours through the keen salt air. The girls all looked
charming--the white dresses, bright sashes, and big picture hats are so
becoming. They were dancing hard when we left, about half past six, and
it was a pretty sight as we looked back from the gates--long lines of
sunlight wavering over the grass, figures in white flitting through the
trees, distant strains of music, and what was less agreeable, the
strident sound of a sirene on some of the autos. They are detestable
things.

We were very comfortable at Villers in a nice, clean house looking on
the sea, with broad balconies at every story, where we put sofas and
tables and green blinds, using them as extra salons. We were never in
the house except to eat and sleep. Nothing is more characteristic of the
French (particularly in the bourgeoise) than the thorough way in which
they _do_ their month at the sea-shore. They generally come for the month
of August. Holidays have begun and business, of all kinds, is slack.
Our plage was really a curiosity. There is a splendid stretch of sand
beach--at low tide one can walk, by the shore, to Trouville or Houlgate
on perfectly firm, dry sand. There are hundreds