The little cook, plump and trim in her black dress and neat white apron poured the golden mass into the hot butter, stirred it slowly with a long handled spoon.
“Funny to think how small a thing, like an omelet, can make a place famous,” mused Cynthia.
“Oh, but she made it an art. Like your child portraits, Cynthia,” said Mrs. Brewster.
A delicious smell, wood smoke, butter, the omelet. Cynthia grew ravenous just watching the process. In another moment it would be ready for them. And again her attention sought the couple at the further table. The man looked almost French, thin and wiry and intense, the girl had buttercup hair that gleamed in the lamplight, and slim, capable hands with which she gestured as she talked.
The finished omelet was served piping hot upon a plate warmed before the fire. When Cynthia had finished the last delicious morsel she looked up again. The party of two had become three by the addition of an older man, obviously the father of the girl.
“I wonder if they’re engaged,” said Cynthia turning the little emerald on her own slim finger.
“Who’s engaged, Cyn?” asked Nancy. “Listen honey, try the raspberries, with sour cream, they’re delicious.” But then Nancy’s back was toward the interesting couple so she might be excused for a lack of interest. Mrs. Brewster caught Cynthia’s eye and smiled.
“The man looks like a Basque,” she said. “But I think the girl is American. I saw them in our hotel this afternoon.”
The Brewsters, who with Cynthia had come the short but complicated trip from Brittany that morning, planned now to spend several days at Mont St. Michel. After that Cynthia was reconciled to traveling alone again. Meanwhile she and Nancy could paint and explore the abbey fortress and talk Academy gossip, there wouldn’t be such another chance till Cynthia got back to New York.
Exploration got under way immediately after breakfast the next morning. Nancy with her mother’s sketch box, Cynthia with the sketching stool accompanied Mrs. Brewster up the steep cobbled street of the tiny village.