Lucille and John Turner had walked slowly away together down the narrow path running from the house to the solid entrenchment of turf that stands on the cliff edge, covered with such sparse grass and herb as the sand and spray may nourish.
"It is pleasant," Lucille said, as they went from us, "to have some one to talk French with."
She was without her hat or gloves, and I saw the sunlight gleaming on her hair.
"You have Alphonse Giraud," said Turner, in his blunt way.
Lucille shrugged her shoulders.
"And Howard, from time to time," added the banker, who, having received permission to smoke a cigar, was endeavouring to extract a penknife from his waistcoat pocket.
"Who talks French with the understanding of an Englishman," said Lucille, quickly.
"You do not like Englishmen?"
"I like honest ones, Monsieur," said Lucille, looking across the sea.
"Ah!"