ed! It was simply a
bribe. He was being bribed for his own good. And to think that like a
great gaby he had been shoved off to the sea by one term of endearment,
and to a place, too, where there was neither shade nor shadows, simply
miles and miles of bright monotonous sea, three dusty cornflowers, two
bedraggled poppies and the sun all around you.

Tanned, indeed! Why his face would be all blisters and his eyes
bloodshot.

The insensitiveness of women!

If Marthe were here she would bathe before breakfast, feed the hens,
find the eggs, encourage the cook, pat the dog, listen to the story of
Marie Aimee's life, pick the cornflowers, praise the cook, churn the
butter, play with the children, climb on to the hay cart, collect shells
on the beach, lie in the sun, let the sand trickle through her fingers
and explain with perfect sincerity that it was the most delightful place
in the world.

But he didn't like paddling or shrimping or sailing or farmyard life.
He wanted a velvet lawn, a cedar, a rose garden, lavender, a sun dial,
iced lemonade and solitude. Or he wanted his own cool apartment, with
drawn sunblinds, vases full of flowers, his immense writing table, and a
deserted Paris around him.

Women always did to you as they wanted to be done by. That sort of
literal interpretation of Christianity showed such a lack of
imagination. It was no good telling Marthe that you didn't like the sea,
she simply wouldn't believe it.

"Think of the sunset reflected in the wet sand," she would say, and if
you told her that you didn't want to think about it, that it was no fit
subject for an active mind, she would be hurt.

In any case no one had a right to make you do things for your own good.
It was a horrible form of self-sacrifice. If Marthe had said, "_Please_
go to St. Jean-les-Flots and pick me a poppy," he would have been
delighted, but to stay at the Hotel Bungalow in the interests of his own
health was a very different matter.

Marie Aimee was putting a pot with one red geranium in it on his writing
table. It was, she explained, still very early in the season but
Monsieur must not be discouraged. Later it became very gay with dancing
and Japanese lanterns in the garden. The Hotel Bungalow would be quite
full, whereas now there was only Monsieur and a lady.

"A lady?"

"But yes, Monsieur."

"A young lady?"

"A lady of a certain age."

Maurice hoped that it would be an uncertain age. Of course every one
over