Then she pointed to a side track, leading to a low building, half white-washed mud, half timber.
"That's the way to my farm," she said. "But I don't know that my breakfast will appeal to millionaires."
"Don't thrust that down my throat just now," he answered. "I want to see life from your point of view."
The farm they were approaching was a tiny place, with a spreading garden where orange and fig trees grew. In one corner a little summer-house stood, wreathed with red roses, that gave a wide view of the island and a glimpse of the sea.
Evidently Pansy was expected. A coarse white cloth was spread on the table in the summer-house, and it was set with thick crockery and leaden-looking forks and spoons.
Leaving Le Breton to attend to the horses, she made her way to the tiny homestead, to announce her presence and the fact of a guest.
Then she passed on towards the summer-house.
Tossing her hat on a seat, she sat with the light glinting on her golden curls, her elbows on the table, watching the scene dreamily, in a frame of red roses.
This vision of her greeted Le Breton as he turned the corner, bringing a hungry glint to his eyes.
Breakfast proved a simple repast.