, he found himself in the gaud of the
flower-market. There a hundred umbrellas, yellow, red, mauve and
magenta, lemon yellow, cadmium yellow, gold, a multi-coloured mass
spread their extended bellies to a sky blue as the blouses.

The brown fingers of the peasant women are tying and pressing all the
miraculous bloom of the earth into the fair fingers of Saxon
girls--great packages of roses, pink lilies, clematis, stephanotis,
and honeysuckle. A gentle breeze is blowing, rocking the umbrellas,
wafting the odour of the roses and honeysuckle, bringing hither an
odour of the lapping tide, rocking the immense umbrellas. One huge
and ungainly sunshade creaks, swaying its preposterous rotundity.
Beneath it the brown woman slices her pumpkin. Mike scanned every
thin face for Lily, and as he stood wedged against a flower-stand, a
girl passed him. She turned. It was Lily.

"Lily, is it possible? I was looking for you everywhere."

"Looking for me! When did you arrive in Nice? How did you know I was
here?"

"Mrs. Byril wrote. She described a girl, and I knew from her
description it must be you. And I came on at once."

"You came on at once to find me?"

"Yes; I love you more than ever. I can think only of you.... But when
I arrived I found Mrs. Byril had left, and I had no means of finding
your address."

"You foolish boy; you mean to say you rushed away on the chance that
I was the girl described in Mrs. Byril's letter! ... A thousand miles!
and never even waited to ask the name or the address! Well, I suppose
I must believe that you are in love. But you have not heard.... They
say I'm dying. I have only one lung left. Do you think I'm looking
very ill?"

"You are looking more lovely than ever. My love shall give you
health; we shall go--where shall we go? To Italy? You are my Italy.
But I'm forgetting--why did you not answer my letter? It was cruel of
you. Deceive me no more, play with me no longer; if you will not have
me, say so, and I will end myself, for I cannot live without you."

"But I do not understand, I haven't had any letter; what letter?"

"I wrote asking you to marry me."

They walked out of the flower market on to the _Promenade des
Anglais_, and Mike told her about his letters, concealing nothing of
his struggle. The sea lay quite blue and still, lapping gently on the
spare beach; the horizon floated on the sea, almost submerged, and
the mountains, every edge razor-like, hard, and metallic, were vei