“You always say such pleasant things. I remember that knack of yours. Help me on with this cloak,” she added with a coquettish glance. “There, how do I look?” she asked when she had adjusted the wrap, gracefully, as all her acts were. “And now you must find me a corner where I shan’t be quite blown away,” she commanded.
I found her a corner and installed her.
“We shall want two chairs, of course, and then we can have a long chat like we used to in Paris.”
I had had quite enough of Paris already, if she meant to continue to talk in her former strain. But I fetched another chair and sat down.
Then she laughed suddenly and almost boisterously. “Do you know I really believe my mother wanted me to go and stop with her? She can be a terrible nuisance. Imagine me pinned up there. Sympathize with me.”
“The viscontesse told me she hoped to get to sleep,” I replied.
“Then wasn’t it selfish of her? As if I was going to miss this beautiful sea just because she feels bad and has a headache. Absolutely preposterous, wasn’t it?” and she laughed again.
I looked round at her and made no reply.
She returned the look as if surprised at my silence. Then her eyes lighted and her lips parted. “Oh, I remember now, of course. It was you who always put on that mournful look—funereally gloomy—when I used to do things which shocked your English propriety. I was thinking it was that Graf von Holstein—that long-faced German who would insist upon giving me flowers I did not want and then expected me to dance with him in return.”
I had given her flowers and asked her to dance when she wore them.