berty, which made him
suppose that she was not quite a lady, which made him accuse himself of
vulgarity.

And then she laughed, and his accusations, both of her and of himself,
fled.

They walked back together and he explained to her just how much he hated
the sea, the heat, the Hotel Bungalow, the cook, and Marie Aimee's
footsteps. He explained how anxious he had been about her--how he had
longed to see her face--how much her sunshade had depressed him--how her
lace veil had been a personal enemy.

She said that she adored the country....

He told her that only in big towns could you find peace or flowers.

She said the Hotel Bungalow had "un caractere assez special...."

He did not listen to her comments--they were mere breathing places. On
the subject of the sea he was, he thought, almost witty, with a touch of
real indignation.

She said the sea was her passion....

He decided that she was an obstinate woman--entetee. How ridiculous to
love the sea--especially for some one who pretended to like the country.
The two were practically incompatible. Could she explain her point of
view?

The sea, she said, was such a wonderful escape....

He was thrilled. A thousand explanations of her presence at the Hotel
Bungalow jostled one another in his mind.

Of course he quite understood what she meant about the sea. It had a
certain spaciousness and it did, so to speak, quarantine you from life.
For instance, in a rowing boat, it was impossible to feel the importance
of being a snob.

That was not, she said, exactly what she meant....

Maurice was annoyed. He was accustomed to people who were proud to share
his meanings.

Madame would perhaps be able to explain....

It was not, Madame murmured, a question of being able to explain, but of
being able to interrupt....

Maurice flushed and relapsed into sulky silence. He watched his
companion trotting by his side, taking three little steps to each one of
his. He took a childish pleasure in making his strides as wide as
possible, upsetting the rhythm of her walk. The brim of her hat hid her
eyes. He felt that his uncertainty as to their expression gave the
matter an interest that it did not intrinsically possess. Even if she
were smiling, what did it matter?

Suddenly she turned to him.

"Has Monsieur anything more to conceal from me?" she asked.

Maurice capitulated. It was a delightful formula. He wished that he had
thought of it himself. It was she, he sa