We crossed to a chemist's, but it appeared that he usually went to a chemist's a little farther down the street. There he made his purchases, and once more we came out into the street.
"Now I want some bootlaces," he said. "You see, I always load up when I come into Dinard. Saves time, not to speak of the tram-fare."
It was approaching a brilliant midday, and from the Tennis Club, the shops, the confectioners, and the cafés, people were beginning to press to their various hotels and villas to lunch. In another half-hour the street would be half empty, but now it was at its gayest with bright blazers, gaudy costumes, sleek heads, sea-browned faces. One saw laughing, turning heads, caught snatches of appointments—"À ce soir"—"Don't forget, Blanche"—"Number Four at two-thirty"—"You coming our way, Suzette?"
Suddenly my arm was seized, and M. Arnaud took a quick step forward.
"Thees ou-ay," he said laughingly, "des enveloppes——"
I was dragged into the Bazaar.
Then, but too late, I wondered what his so pressing need of envelopes was. "Must have some—ran right out yesterday!" Who were his correspondents? Of what did his letter-bag consist? Letters, he! A passport and a birth-certificate would have been more to the point; a permis de séjour and his Army Discharge Papers would have been more to the point. And most to the point of all was that the rascal had completely hoodwinked me.
For, standing there among hoops and grace-sticks, string shoes and cards of bijouterie, caoutchouc bathing-caps and all the one-franc-fifty fal-lals of the Bazaar, alone and for the moment with her back to us, was Jennie Aird.