re leaving her, Robert
begged her pardon for the impatience--he called it rudeness--with which
he had received her well-meant caution.

"You made one mistake, Adele," he said, with a light smile; "there is
no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You
should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might
then have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection.
Au revoir. But you look tired," he added, solicitously. "Would you like
a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with
a drop of Angostura."

She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and
acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart
from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself
brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sevres cup, with a
flaky cracker or two on the saucer.

She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open
door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a bon
garcon, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the
house."

The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension. They were
leaning toward each other as the wateroaks bent from the sea. There was
not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been
turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The
lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more
jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children.
Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would
doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to
his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of
odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked
out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach.
The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical.

Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black
girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the
machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided
of imperiling her health.

Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the
dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically
to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned
the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding