an omelette made by Andree herself, Annette went to her room and cried
herself to sleep. She was civilised, poor soul, and here they were a
stone's throw from the cure and the church! Gaston and Andree,
refreshed, travelled down the long steps to the village, over the place,
along the quay, to the lighthouse and the beach, through crowds of
sardine fishers and simple hard-tongued Bretons. Cheerful, buoyant at
dinner, there now came upon the girl an intense quiet and fatigue. She
stood and looked long at the sea. Gaston tried to rouse her.

"This is your native Brittany, Andree," he said. She pointed far over
the sea:

"Near that light at Penmark I was born."

"Can you speak the Breton language?"

"Far worse than you speak Parisian French."

He laughed. "You are so little like these people!"

She had vanity. That had been part of her life. Her beauty had brought
trade when she was a gipsy; she had been the admired of Paris: she was
only twenty three. Presently she became restless, and shrank from him.
Her eyes had a flitting hunted look. Once they met his with a wild sort
of pleading or revolt, he could not tell which, and then were continually
turned away.

If either could have known how hard the little dwarf of sense and memory
was trying to tell her something.