“You were about to pass out?” said I, holding the door.

She bowed; but at the moment another lady—­elderly, rather stout, and, to speak it plainly, of homely and unattractive aspect—­whom I had not hitherto perceived, called from a table at the other end of the room where she was sitting: 

“We ought to start early to-morrow.”

The younger lady turned her head slowly toward the speaker.

“My dear mother,” said she, “I never start early.  Besides, this town is interesting—­the landlord says so.”

“But he wishes us to arrive for déjeuner.”

“We will take it here.  Perhaps we will drive over in the afternoon—­perhaps the next day.”

And the young lady gazed at her mother with an air of indifference—­or rather it seemed to me strangely like one of aversion and defiance.

“My dear!” cried the elder in consternation.  “My dearest Marie!”

“It is just as I thought,” said I to myself complacently.

Marie Delhasse—­for beyond doubt it was she—­walked slowly across the room and sat down by her mother.  I took a table nearer the door; the waiter appeared, and I ordered a light supper.  Marie poured out a glass of wine from a bottle on the table; apparently they had been supping.  They began to converse together in low tones.  My repast arriving, I fell to.  A few moments later, I heard Marie say, in her composed indolent tones: 

“I’m not sure I shall go at all. Entre nous, he bores me.”

I stole a glance at Mme. Delhasse.  Consternation was writ large on her face, and suspicion besides.  She gave her daughter a quick sidelong glance, and a frown gathered on her brow.  So far as I heard, however, she attempted no remonstrance.  She rose, wrapping a shawl round her, and made for the door.  I sprang up and opened it; she walked out.  Marie drew a chair to the fire and sat down with her back to me, toasting her feet—­for the summer night had turned chilly.  I finished my supper.  The clock struck half-past eleven.  I stifled a yawn; one smoke and then to the bed was my programme.

Marie Delhasse turned her head half-round.

“You must not,” said she, “let me prevent you having your cigarette.  I should set you at ease by going to bed, but I can’t sleep so early, and upstairs the fire is not lighted.”

I thanked her and approached the fire.  She was gazing into it meditatively.  Presently she looked up.

“Smoke, sir,” she said imperiously but languidly.

I obeyed her, and stood looking down at her, admiring her stately beauty.

“You have passed the day here?” she asked, gazing again into the fire.

“In this neighborhood,” said I, with discreet vagueness.

“You have been able to pass the time?”

“Oh, certainly!” That had not been my difficulty.

“There is, of course,” she said wearily, “Mont St. Michel.  But can you imagine anyone living in such a country?”