"You are very kind, Monsieur de la Rive," she said, with a frank smile; then she precipitated herself on a bed of yellow marigolds growing beside the station house. "Oh, the delightful flowers!"
"Is she not charming?" murmured Emmanuel, in a blissful undertone, to Madame Thériault. "What grace, what courtesy!—and it is due to the Englishman."
Madame Thériault's black eyes were critically running over Bidiane's tailor-made gown. "The Englishman will marry her," she said, sententiously. Then she asked, abruptly, "Have you ever seen her before?"
"Yes, once, years ago; she was a little hawk, I assure you."
"She will do now," and the woman approached her. "Mademoiselle, may I ask for your checks."
Bidiane sprang up from the flower bed and caught her by both hands. "You are Madame Thériault—I know of you from Mr. Nimmo. Ah, it is pleasant to be among friends. For days and days it has been strangers—strangers—only strangers. Now I am with my own people," and she proudly held up her red head.
The woman blushed in deep gratification. "Mademoiselle, I am more than glad to see you. How is the young Englishman who left many friends on the Bay?"
"Do you call him young? He is at least thirty."
"But he was young when here."
"True, I forgot that. He is well, very well. He is never ill now. He is always busy, and such a good man—oh, so good!" and Bidiane clasped her hands, and rolled her lustrous, tawny eyes to the sky.