aralleled the beach; and in some five minutes, walking quickly,
they came out upon the road itself by the turn near the rough wooden
bridge that crossed the creek halfway between the eastern headland and
the white, clustering cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer. But here, for all
their hurry, they paused suddenly of one accord, looking at each other
questioningly, as voices reached them from the direction of the bridge
which, still hidden from their view, was just around the bend of the
road ahead.

* * * * *

"But, my dear"--it was a man speaking, his tone a sort of tolerant
protest--"I am sure it is just the place we have been looking for. It
is quiet here."

"Quiet!"--it was a woman's voice this time, in a wealth of irony. "It
is stagnation! There isn't a single thing alive here--even the sea is
dead! It is enough to give one the blues for the rest of one's life!
And the accommodations at that unspeakable tavern are absolutely
appalling. I can't imagine what you are dreaming of to want to stay
another minute! I'm quite sure there are lots of other places that
will furnish all the rest and quiet required, and where, at the same
time, we can at least be comfortable. Anyway, I'm not going to stay
here!"

"But, Myrna, you--"

"There is some one coming," said the girl.

* * * * *

Jean and Marie-Louise were walking forward again.

"What are they saying, Jean?" asked Marie-Louise.

Jean shook his head.

"I do not know," he answered. "It is English. See! There they are!"

An elderly, well-dressed man, grey-haired, clean-shaven, a little
stout, with a wholesomely good-natured, ruddy face, was leaning against
the railing of the bridge; and beside him, digging at the planks with
the tip of her parasol, stood a girl in dainty white, her head bent
forward, her face hidden under the wide brim of a picture hat.

Jean's eyes, attracted as by a magnet, passed over the man and fixed
upon the girl. At Nice, at Monte Carlo, so they said, one saw many
such as she; but Bernay-sur-Mer was neither Nice nor Monte Carlo, and
he had never seen a woman gowned like that before. _'Cre nom_, what
exquisite harmony of line and poise! If she would but look up! _Bon
Dieu_, but it would be a desecration of the picture if she were not
gloriously pretty!

The gentleman, nodding pleasantly, greeted them as they approached.

"Good afternoon!" he said smilingly, in French.

The