They strolled back toward the hotel and the pleasant smell of Sunday dinner, the crowd slowly trickling away behind them. The little bakery was already doing a brisk business, for many of these small shops opened as soon as the church was out. Cynthia’s eyes caught a new poster on the bakery wall, a single sheet of vivid lemon yellow with blue and red type, such a bright patch of color in the pearly gray street that she hauled Nancy along to look at it. “Well ...” after a minute of Nancy’s silent contemplation. “What does it say, stupid? Can’t you read out loud, the way you were taught?” Nancy chuckled. “Sorry, I forgot. Well, ‘Hypnotiste’ means ‘Hypnotist.’” “I gathered as much as that. What comes after it?” “‘World renowned Professor Reynaldo.’ That sounds Spanish but he says he’s from Paris--‘Parisien’--will be here on Tuesday evening to give a demonstration of his stupendous and altogether unexplainable power of the human eye,” Nancy translated loosely. “It also says his demonstration will be held in the meat market. ... I suppose that’s the biggest room they have, except the church, and that admission will be one and two francs. Standing room fifty centimes. Poor thing, he can’t make much of a living out of that.” “Let’s go,” suggested Cynthia. “Eh? ... Well ... yes.” Then as the idea struck her. “I think it would be fun. Maybe mother would like to go. Let’s ask her now.” Mrs. Brewster was amused at the idea and quite willing they should go, but refused to be a third of the party. “Not if it’s to be held in the meat market. I never could stand the odor of so many sides of beef and mutton. But you children go along. I’m sure you will find it an amusing cross section of the peasant’s amusement. I believe they have never had a hypnotist here before.” But Cynthia very nearly didn’t get to the entertainment after all. For on Sunday afternoon she went swimming with Nancy. It was an hour or two after dinner, the warmest part of the day when the girls took their bathing suits and crossed the little path across the tidal river. The way straggled along the top of a high, wind-torn meadow where coarse grasses tangled about the feet and where, on the rocks below, the sea piled, churning among the crevices. But the further side of this little peninsula was the bathing beach, quite wild and deserted, and one could choose any of a hundred grass-grown sand dunes for a dressing room. Nancy had raced on ahead, and Cynthia sneezed twice, and wondered if she ought to go for this swim, after all. She wrestled with her conscience for a bit ... and conscience lost. It was a beautiful swim, but about midnight Cynthia awoke with such a sore throat she could scarcely whisper. “Oh, darn!” she murmured feverishly. “What a bother! I do hope I’m not going to be sick!”