They walked back together and he explained to her just how much he hated the sea, the heat, the Hotel Bungalow, the cook, and Marie Aimée's footsteps. He explained how anxious he had been about her—how he had longed to see her face—how much her sunshade had depressed him—how her lace veil had been a personal enemy.
She said that she adored the country....
He told her that only in big towns could you find peace or flowers.
She said the Hotel Bungalow had "un caractère assez spècial...."
He did not listen to her comments—they were mere breathing places. On the subject of the sea he was, he thought, almost witty, with a touch of real indignation.
She said the sea was her passion....
He decided that she was an obstinate woman—entêtée. How ridiculous to love the sea—especially for some one who pretended to like the country. The two were practically incompatible. Could she explain her point of view?
The sea, she said, was such a wonderful escape....
He was thrilled. A thousand explanations of her presence at the Hotel Bungalow jostled one another in his mind.
Of course he quite understood what she meant about the sea. It had a certain spaciousness and it did, so to speak, quarantine you from life. For instance, in a rowing boat, it was impossible to feel the importance of being a snob.