“A word of greeting to young Gaos!” She had been greatly affected in writing that sentence, and that name, which now she could not forget.  She often spent her evenings here at the window, like a grand lady.  Her father did not approve of her walking with the other girls of her age, who had been her early playmates.  And as he left the cafe, and walked up and down, smoking his pipe with old seamen like himself, he was happy to look up at his daughter among her flowers, in his grand house.

“Young Gaos!” Against her will she gazed seaward; it could not be seen, but she felt it was nigh, at the end of the tiny street crowded with fishermen.  And her thoughts travelled through a fascinating and delightful infinite, far, far away to the northern seas, where “La Marie, Captain Guermeur,” was sailing.  A strange man was young Gaos! retiring and almost incomprehensible now, after having come forward so audaciously, yet so lovingly.

In her long reverie, she remembered her return to Brittany, which had taken place the year before.  One December morning after a night of travelling, the train from Paris had deposited her father and herself at Guingamp.  It was a damp, foggy morning, cold and almost dark.  She had been seized with a previously unknown feeling; she could scarcely recognise the quaint little town, which she had only seen during the summer—­oh, that glad old time, the dear old times of the past!  This silence, after Paris!  This quiet life of people, who seemed of another world, going about their simple business in the misty morning.  But the sombre granite houses, with their dark, damp walls, and the Breton charm upon all things, which fascinated her now that she loved Yann, had seemed particularly saddening upon that morning.  Early housewives were already opening their doors, and as she passed she could glance into the old-fashioned houses, with their tall chimney-pieces, where sat the old grandmothers, in their white caps, quiet and dignified.  As soon as daylight had begun to appear, she had entered the church to say her prayers, and the grand old aisle had appeared immense and shadowy to her—­quite different from all the Parisian churches—­with its rough pillars worn at the base by the chafing of centuries, and its damp, earthy smell of age and saltpetre.

In a damp recess, behind the columns, a taper was burning, before which knelt a woman, making a vow; the dim flame seemed lost in the vagueness of the arches.  Gaud experienced there the feeling of a long-forgotten impression:  that kind of sadness and fear that she had felt when quite young at being taken to mass at Paimpol Church on raw, wintry mornings.

But she hardly regretted Paris, although there were many splendid and amusing sights there.  In the first place she felt almost cramped from having the blood of the vikings in her veins.  And then, in Paris, she felt like a stranger and an intruder.  The Parisiennes were tight-laced, artificial women, who had a peculiar way of walking; and Gaud was too intelligent even to have attempted to imitate them.  In her head-dress, ordered every year from the maker in Paimpol, she felt out of her element in the capital; and did not understand that if the wayfarers turned round to look at her, it was only because she made a very charming picture.