It was a low, frame building, the best house in the town, set round with a garden where the tamarinds and the tree ferns all had a bend towards the west as though warped by the eternally blowing trade wind.
“And you are going back to St. Pierre, Marie?” asked the old man when they reached the gate.
“Oui, Missie.”
“Walking all the way?”
“Oui, Missie.”
“Well, good luck to thee and a safe journey, ah, that I had thy youth and strength—”
He was turning to the gate when Gaspard, with a half glance at the girl, said: “I too, am returning to St. Pierre, would Mademoiselle object to my walking with her on the road; it is a lonely road—”
“You,” said the old man, before Marie could speak. “Mon Dieu, do you think that you could keep up with a porteuse?”
Gaspard glanced at Marie and smiled, shewing his white teeth, the question seemed absurd, contrasting his strong form with the girl’s slight figure. Marie was also smiling. Their eyes met for a second.
“I will try—If Mademoiselle does not object to so feeble a companion.”