'That argues ill for people's taste. The place is lovely. Underfoot, it's quite overgrown with mosses; and the branches interlace overhead. Where the sun filters through, you get adorable effects of light and shadow. It's fearfully romantic; perfect for making love in, and that sort of thing. Oh, if all the women hereabouts hadn't such hawk-like noses! You see, the Duke of Wellington was here in 1814.—No? He wasn't? I thought I'd read he was.—Ah, well, he was just over the border. But my lady of this morning hadn't a hawk-like nose. I can't quite remember what style of nose she did have, but it wasn't hawk-like. I say, frankly, as between old friends, have you any notion who she was?'
'What kind of horse had she?'
'Ah, there!' cried Paul, with a despairing gesture. 'You've touched my vulnerable point. I never shall have any memory for horses. I think it was black—no, brown—no, grey—no, green. Oh, what am I saying? I can't remember. Do—do you make it an essential?'
'She might have been from Bayonne.'
'Who rides from Bayonne? Fancy a Bayonnaise on a horse! They're all busy in their shops.'
'You forget the military. She may have been the wife of an officer.'
'Oh, horror! Do you really think so? Then she must have been frowsy and provincial, after all; and I thought her so smart and distinguished-looking and everything.'
'Or perhaps an Englishwoman from Biarritz. They sometimes ride out as far as this.'
'Dear André, if she were English, I should have known it at a glance—and there the matter would have rested. I have at least a practised eye for English women. I haven't lived half my life in England without learning something.'
'Well, there are none but English at Biarritz at this season.'