all the young men of her
acquaintance who go in for muscular Christianity to her aesthetical way
of thinking.

Leaving the custom-house, we crossed the quay, the old castle in front
of us, and passing through the great gateway, immediately found
ourselves at the Place Chateaubriand and the Hotel de France. For the
hotel forms part of the building in which Chateaubriand lived.

We had a very short time to devote to St. Malo. A long journey still lay
before us, for we wished to reach Morlaix that night. There was the
choice of taking the train direct, or of crossing by boat to Dinard, and
so joining the train from St. Malo, which reached Dinan after a long
round. The latter seemed preferable, since it promised more variety,
though shortening our stay at the old town. But, as Madame wisely
remarked, it would give us sufficient time for luncheon, and an extra
hour or so in St. Malo could not be very profitably spent.

So before long we were once more going down the quay, in company with
the porter--whose lamentations at our abrupt departure were no doubt
sincere as well as politic--and a truck carrying our goods and chattels.
As yet, they were modest in number and respectable in appearance. H.C.
had not commenced his raid upon the old curiosity shops; had not yet
encumbered himself with endless packages, from deal boxes containing old
silver, to worm-eaten, fourteenth century carved-wood monks and
madonnas, carefully wrapped in brown paper, and bound head, hand and
foot (where these essentials were not missing) with cord. All this came
in due time, but to-day we were still dignified.

We passed without the walls and went down the quay. All our surroundings
were gay and brilliant. Everything was life and movement, the life and
movement of a Continental town. The "gentle gales" wooed the trees, and
the trees made music in the air. The sun shone as it can only shine out
of England. The sky, wearing its purest blue, was flecked with white
clouds pure as angels' wings. The boat we had recently left was
discharging cargo, and her steam was quietly dying down.

Four old women--each must have been eighty, at least--were seated on a
bench, knitting and smiling and looking as placid and contented as if
the world and the sunshine had been made for them alone, and it was
their duty to enjoy it to the utmost. It was impossible to sketch them:
Time and Tide wait for no man, and even now the whistle of the Dinard
boat might be heard