Afterwards both rickshaws jingled away. The man should have followed the others in, but he stood still. He stood still, with a yellow chiffon wrap flung over his arm, and distinctly snuffed the air.
"Poppies!" he muttered. "What makes me think of poppies?... God! I could almost dream that dream again...."
For an instant his brilliant moody eyes stared straight into the black shadows where Poppy stood, watching him with both hands on her heart. Then the voices of the others called, and he turned abruptly and went in.
Poppy fled home to dark, sad dreams.
CHAPTER IX
ONE blue-eyed morning, about a month after Abinger's departure, Poppy was down on the sea-beach. She sat in the loose sand, and ran her hands restlessly in and out of it, making little banks about her. She was wondering if she would be able to sleep if she came out and lay in these cool white sands some night. She was so tired of never sleeping.
The sun had not risen, but there was a pale primrose dado painted across the East.
Presently the girl became aware of another woman sauntering along close to the edge of the sea. She was digging a walking-stick in the sand every few yards and watching the hole fill with water afterwards. She carried the tail of her white-linen skirt under her chin, and her feet all wetted by the little incoming waves, had caught the pale light and seemed shod with silver as she walked, singing a little French song:
"Le monde est méchant, ma petite,
Avec son sourire moqueur:
Il dit qu'à ton côté palpite
Une montre en place du cœur."