'You are not going away to-day?'
She remained for a moment silent, then raised her big dreamy eyes, and seemed to be looking far away into the future.
'No!' she answered; 'I must wait.'
[XI]
After an abominable month of May, June set in with very warm weather. Westerly gales had been blowing for the last three weeks, storms had devastated the coast, swept away masses of the cliffs, swallowed up boats, and killed many people; but now the broad blue sky, the satiny sea, and the bright hot days were infinitely pleasant and enjoyable.
One glorious afternoon Pauline had wheeled Chanteau's chair on to the terrace, and near him, on a red woollen rug, she had deposited little Paul, who was now eighteen months old. She was his godmother, and she spoilt the child as much as she did the grandfather.
'Are you sure the sun won't inconvenience you, uncle?' she asked.
'Oh dear no! I should think not, indeed! It is so long since I saw it. Are you going to leave little Paul asleep there?'
'Yes. The fresh air will do him good.'