Pursuit and observation, perpetual, implacable, were what she had to bear. The women had driven her from the drawing-room; the men made the smoke-room impossible. A cold, wet mist came with the evenings. It lay over the sea and drenched the lawns of the hotel garden. Mrs. Tailleur had no refuge but the lounge.
To-night the wine-faced man and his companion had tracked her there. Mrs. Tailleur had removed herself from the corner where they had hemmed her in. She had found an unoccupied sofa near the writing-table. The pursuer was seized instantly with a desire to write letters. Mrs. Tailleur went out and shivered on the veranda. His eyes followed her. In passing she had turned her back on the screened hearth-place where Lucy and his sister sat alone.
"Did you see that?" said Lucy.
"I did indeed," said Jane.
"It's awful that a woman should be exposed to that sort of thing. What can her people be thinking of?"
"Her people?"
"Yes; to let her go about alone."
"I go about alone," said Jane pensively.
"Yes, but she's so good looking."
"Am I not?"