“Where do you generally live?” he asked, after she had told him that her name was Gilda Tempest.
“My uncle and I live a great deal abroad,” was her reply; “indeed, more than I care to—to be frank. I love England. But my uncle travels so much that we have no home nowadays, and live nearly all the year round in hotels. I get horribly tired of the eternal table d’hôte, the music and the chatter.”
“Rather pleasant, I should fancy. I love travelling,” remarked the young man.
“I grow sick to death of it,” she declared, with a sigh. “We wander all over Europe. My uncle is a wanderer, ever on the move and most erratic.”
“Are you staying in Southport long?” he enquired eagerly.
“I really don’t know. We may stay for a day—or for a month. I never know where we’re going. I have not been home for nearly two years now.”
“Home? Where do you live?”
“Father has a house in France—in a quaint little village called By— on the edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau. Do you know Fontainebleau?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I went there from Paris once, with the guv’nor. We stayed at the Hotel de France—I think it was—at Fontainebleau. We went over the old palace and drove out to Barbison, and to Marlotte. Awfully charming places.”
“Ah! Barbison. That is the colony of artists. I know, I love it, and have often cycled over there, where I have friends. Father is a bit of a recluse, so I travel and look after my uncle.”