"Oh, dear, mademoiselle, do think how impossible that would be," she explained, seeing the lady looked somewhat offended. "If we took to the fields how could you follow us in a carriage? No; just think how nice it will be to see so much of your friend while I am out."
This view of the case somewhat reconciled Mademoiselle Thérèse to the idea, though her contentment vanished when she found that the wind had increased considerably during the afternoon, and that the mouth of the river was beginning to look a little disturbed.
They stood on the end of the quay, waiting the arrival of the steamboat, and mademoiselle shook her head gloomily.
"It is not that I am a bad sailor, you know," she explained; "but, when there is much movement, it affects my nerves and makes me feel faint."
Barbara looked steadfastly out to sea. She did not want to hurt Mademoiselle Thérèse's feelings by openly showing her amusement.
"It is very unpleasant to have such delicate nerves," her companion continued; "but I was ever thus—from a child."
"But at this time of year we shall not often have a stormy passage," comforted Barbara.
At that moment a gust of wind, more sudden than usual, playfully caught Mademoiselle Thérèse's hat, and bore it over the quay into the water.
"My hat!" she shrieked. "Oh, save my hat!"
Barbara ran forward to the edge, but it had been carried too far for her to reach even with a stick or umbrella.