and narrow temples form a combination rarely seen in our
district. I was pointing him out to Rose, when he called to her
familiarly and congratulated her on visiting at the great house. I saw
no movement of foolish vanity in her; on the contrary, there was great
simplicity in her story of the drive and the lunch. I was pleased at
this and told her so, later, when we were back in the trap.

"The poor fellow is afraid of anything that might take me from him," she
said. "He must be very unhappy just now, for he has been imploring me
for the last two years to marry him."

I gave her a questioning look; and she went on:

"I did not want to. I would rather end my days in poverty than languish
for ever behind a counter. Still, his love would perhaps have overcome
my resistance, if I had not met you."

She leant over to kiss me. I returned her caress, though I felt a little
troubled, as I always do when I receive a positive proof of the way in
which I have changed the course of her life. At the same time, I
realised that her nature contained a sense of pride, in which till then
I had believed her entirely deficient. I remained thoughtful, but not
astonished. We end by having opinions, on both men and things, which are
so delicately jointed that they can constantly twist and turn without
ever breaking.

Meanwhile, the horse was jogging peacefully along; we were going towards
the sea, for I wanted to finish our holiday there. The willow-edged
river followed our road; and we already saw the white sheen of the
cliffs at the far end of the valley.

Soon we are passing through the little old town, where a few visitors
are still staying for the bathing, though it is late in the season. At
the inn, where we leave our horse and trap, they seem to think us a
rather odd couple. I laugh at their amused faces, but Rose is
embarrassed and hurries me away. All the dark and winding little streets
lead to the sea. We divine its vastness and immensity beyond the dusky
lanes that give glimpses of it. In front of one of those luminous
chinks, under a rounded archway, an old woman stands motionless; she is
clad like the women of the Pays de Caux: a black dress gathered in thick
pleats around the waist, a brown apron and a smooth, white cap flattened
down over her forehead. Poor shrivelled life, whose features seem to
have been harshly carved out of wood! She is like an interlude in the
perfect harmony of things. I utter my admiration aloud, s