sed my courtyard a _cafe chantant_ air that Germaine had taught
him.

A moment later, the siren of the yellow car sent forth its warning wail,
and he was speeding back to his presbytery under the guidance of
Germaine's chauffeur.

* * * * *

The cure was raking out the oysters; he stood on the sandy rim of a pool
of clear sea-water that lay under the noonday sun like a liquid emerald.
As Monsieur le Cure plunged in his long rake and drew it back heavy with
those excellent bivalves for which the restaurant at The Three Wolves
has long been famous, his tall black figure, silhouetted against the
distant sea and sky, reminded me of some great sea-crow fishing for its
breakfast.

To the right of him crouched the restaurant, a low wooden structure,
with its back to the breakers. It has the appearance of being cast there
at high tide, its zigzag line of tiled roofs drying in the air and sun,
like the scaled shell of some stranded monster of the sea. There is a
cavernous old kitchen within, resplendent in shining copper--a busy
kitchen to-day, sizzling in good things and pungent with the aroma of
two tender young chickens, basting on a spit, a jolly old kitchen, far
more enticing than the dingy long dining-room adjoining it, whose walls
are frescoed in panels representing bottle-green lobsters, gaping
succulent clams, and ferocious crabs sidling away indignantly from nets
held daintily by fine ladies and their gallants, in costumes that were
in vogue before the revolution. Even when it pours, this cheerless old
dining-room at The Three Wolves is deserted, since there are half a
score of far cosier little round pavilions for lovers and intimate
friends, built over the oyster pools.

Beyond them, hard by the desolate beach, lie the rocks known as The
Three Wolves. In calm weather the surf smashes over their glistening
backs--at low water, as it happened to be to-day, the seethe of the tide
scurried about their dripping bellies green with hairy sea-weed.

Now and then came cheery ripples of laughter from our little pavilion,
where Germaine and Alice de Breville were arranging a mass of scarlet
nasturtiums, twining their green leaves and tendrils amongst the plates
of _hors d'oeuvres_ and among the dust-caked bottles of Chablis and
Burgundy--Alice, whose dark hair and olive skin are in strong contrast
to Germaine's saucy beauty.

They had banished Tanrade, who had offered his clumsy help--and