XI
And so Brum passed at last over the shining, wonderful sea, feeling only the wind on his forehead and the salt in his nostrils. It was a beautiful day at the dawn of spring; the far-stretching sea sparkled with molten diamonds, and Zillah felt that the highest God's blessing rested like a blue sky over this strange pilgrimage. She was dressed with great taste, and few would have divined the ignorance under her silks.
"Mother, can you see France yet?" Brum asked very soon.
"No, my lamb."
"Mother, can you see France yet?" he persisted later.
"I see white cliffs," she said at last.
"Ah! that's only the white cliffs of Old England. Look the other way."
"I am looking the other way. I see white cliffs coming to meet us."
"Has France got white cliffs, too?" cried Brum, disappointed.
On the journey to Paris he wearied her to describe France. In vain she tried: her untrained vision and poor vocabulary could give him no new elements to weave into a mental picture. There were trees and sometimes houses and churches. And again trees. What kind of trees? Green! Brum was in despair. France was, then, only like England; white cliffs without, trees and houses within. He demanded the Seine at least.