y old men, they don't want to sit at home and do
needlework."

She ended on an expressive note, as though implying more than her
delicate maiden mind would permit her to say. Esther thought of the
young Englishman in the restaurant at the Casino, and was silent.

Their walk led them through the older, more picturesque part of the
town, a portion Esther loved, finding in its steep winding streets and
irregular architecture the charm that was missing from the modern
cities of her knowledge. Here, she thought, one could imagine anything
happening--intrigues, romantic incident, crimes even, all the material
that went to form tales of adventure. This was its habitat. From the
newer, cleaner streets, the luxurious Promenade de la Croisette, the
heterogeneous Route de Grasse, or that region of plutocrats, La
Californie, one expected nothing of the kind.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" remarked her companion, echoing her thoughts.
"I am so fond of all this part. When the weather gets a little warmer
I am going to bring my sketchbook out one day and get a few nice bits.
That corner, for instance--delightful, don't you think?"

They dawdled a bit, through a littered street of open markets where
they examined the contents of barrows--flowers, cheap lace, stockings,
furs, trays of battered coins and bits of china, brass and copper
vessels--now and then peering into a provocative alley-way, held by the
spell of the exotic. Hatless women with smooth shining heads bustled
past them, children in black pinafores played noisily in the gutters,
_ouvriers_ in dust-coloured corduroys bound about the waist with red
sashes lurched along, often with a clatter of black varnished sabots.
In a doorway one of these fellows, a swarthy brigand, was feeding a
particularly ill-favoured mongrel, kneeling beside it and admonishing
it to eat. "_Allez, vite, mange donc, Helene!_" he was saying, and
Esther found entertainment in the mangy cur's rejoicing in the name of
Helene.

It was dark now, lights flared in the windows. Leaving the market,
they turned into a street of shops which Esther had several times
explored, and paused before an antiquaire whose windows showed a
display of old majolica, silver-gilt, and Limoges enamel against a
Flemish tapestry.

"This is one of my favourite shops," said Miss Paull. "You know it,
too? But of course I never buy anything, the things are too dear for
my purse. Cannes is like Chester when it comes to anti