"Oh, it would." Miss Rose giggled over her muffin.
The opal tints grew wider on the sea as it creamed in over the sands; the murmur of the baby waves grew louder.
Marie was airing her triumphant return at the door of Esmé's pretty house. She had tripped into the bedroom, altered and arranged, peered into the cupboards.
"Ciel! but Madame has now an outfit," said Marie; "it is good that I return. Evidently Madame has an income."
Scott, the ousted one, waited stolidly for her wages, and grumbled in the kitchen, hinting spitefully that she might not receive them at once.
Marie settled and sang, and settled, poring over the heaped letters on Esmé's tables, raising her thin eyebrows at the gathering of bills.
"I wonder"—Marie laid down an urgent letter from a Bond Street firm—"where Madame went when she sent me away. I have always wondered," said Marie, tripping down the path of the little garden.
A young man strolling by stopped in amazement, listened to Marie's voluble explanations. A freckled youth, who kept a little hairdresser's shop, and hoped in time to keep fair Marie over it as part proprietress. Marie possessed schemes for moving westwards and becoming affluent. The youth's name was Henry Poore, his hobby photography.
"Tiens! they come, and you must go," said Marie, seeing the big motor humming to the door of the Blakeneys' house. "Ah! it is well that I came here, for there are many clothes and a fine wage, and voila! there is Monsieur le Capitaine. See, he stands with a thin mees."
Henry Poore looked down the road. "Seems I've seen him before," he said. "Sure I have."