Susan shrank under my wing, all crimson confusion. I turned on him sharply.
"What is it you want?" I demanded.
He coloured up; having, I suppose, some poor remnant of shame after all. Then he stammered:
"I thought I might be of some assistance."
"Thank you," I said. "None is needed." And I turned my back.
When we had got everything through, we went into the buffet, and drank thin tea out of thick cups, while He stood at the bar with a long glass of something-and-soda. Susan had been so thoroughly cowed into speechlessness and good behaviour that I was able to take counsel with myself in peace.
We had deposited the trunks in the consigne until Monday, the day I had intended to resume the journey to Sainte Véronique. The bags were piled up at Susan's feet, labelled with the labels He had so coolly looked at. I wished my writing wasn't so legible. No doubt he had memorized the address--Hôtel du Cheval d'Or, Dieppe.
All the way to Newhaven in the train, my poor little week-end time-table had seemed so lovely. Saturday, 4 P.M., arrive at the Cheval d'Or; 4.15 P.M., a bath and change; 5 P.M., a peep into St. Jacques and une petite promenade along the front; 6.30 P.M., a short and early dinner, with a sole Normande, a caneton Rouennais, a bit of Neufchatel cheese, some wild strawberries, and a broad-based, high-soaring, unemptiable carafe of cider; 8 P.M., this diary (with, I devoutly hoped, not a word in it about Susan); 9 P.M., bed; Sunday, a little dash upon Rouen, a run round the churches, and back for seven-o'clock dinner at the Cheval d'Or; Monday, 8.30 A.M., depart for Sainte Véronique. But now the dream was shattered. The gilt was off the Cheval d'Or, and he was the one horse in all France that I might not mount.
I sat and debated whether it would be best to go to one of the other Dieppe hotels, sending the Cheval d'Or the price of the rooms by post, or to climb straight into the Paris train and spend the night in Rouen. At last I decided that we had better stick to Dieppe and go to the Astor, where their idea of welcoming you to Normandy is to try and make you believe you're at the Carlton, and where you can't drink cider without feeling that you're a perfect monster of parsimony. It was maddening. But it had to be faced.
He drained the last drop of his something-and-soda and strode out quickly with his bag--doubtless to entrench himself in good time at the Cheval d'Or. When He was safely off the premises, I went to the platform door to find a porter. Behind the excited crowd of officials who implore you to take your seat for Paris, I espied their rivals--that silent band, with the names of hotels gilt-lettered on their caps, whose dumb eloquence pleads with you to remain in Dieppe. I had almost caught the "Astor" man's eye, when a face I dimly remembered pushed itself into sight. The face looked at me from under a cap inscribed "Hôtel du Cheval d'Or." It was Pierre, that best of porters. He knew me. I was too late.