“I suppose you ladies don’t climb?” he asked.
“I haven’t,” said Andrée. “But perhaps I shall some time. It might be rather fun. I’d never thought of it.”
“We must go,” said Claudine, firmly. “Your father will be wondering what has become of us. Come, dear!”
She smiled politely at the dreadful little man, and they walked off. At a turn of the path Andrée, looking back, saw him spreading out his papers, his straw hat jauntily at the back of his head.
“I’m afraid he’s going to be a nuisance,” said Claudine.
“I guess you can dispose of him!” said Andrée, grimly. “Lord! How I do hate Sundays!”
Claudine felt obliged to remonstrate, but weakly, because she was quite in agreement with her child. They sauntered back with reluctant steps, each lost in her own incommunicable thought.
§ ii
The great mid-day dinner had been disposed of, the chicken, the ice-cream, and the other decent, traditional things, and the entire party went out on to the veranda and sat down, constrained, almost enraged with one another.
“Let’s take a walk, Father!” said Andrée, suddenly.