"How long is madame likely to remain here?" asked the harbour-master's wife, lingering with her hand on the handle of the sitting-room door.
"Months. Years, perhaps," replied the stranger with a sad smile. "That is," she went on, "if you are willing to let me stay so long."
"And madame's name is——?"
"Edith Breakspear."
"Breakspear? Then madame is not French?" exclaimed the harbour-master's wife, wondering to what nationality she should ascribe the name.
"No, I am English," said the lady, with a faint touch of pride in her voice.
"Madame speaks the Breton like an angel."
"I have lived a long time in Brittany."
"Ah! madame loves Brittany," said the other, who like all Bretons was intensely patriotic. "The climate reminds her of her own land. We Bretons came from England. Centuries ago. And when we came we brought the weather with us. Is it not so?"
And with these words she smiled herself out of the room, and went down-stairs to discuss the event with her cronies.