Absently, mechanically, almost, Marguerite pulled from the rock-border of the salt-grass a fat stem of _perce-pierre_, and stuck it in her mouth. The juice of that briny plant--eatable only when steeped in vinegar--bit smartly into her tongue, but she did not even notice it, for she was watching Basil intently; his handsome profile, the deep-set gray eyes under their energetic brows, the obstinate chin, and clean-cut mouth by no means concealed by the short, light mustache which contrasted so happily with the red-brown hair faintly limned with silver. Her cousin Basil! She was very proud of him. Was there any other man like him in the whole round world? “I hesitate to ask you another service,” she heard him say now, and with praiseworthy energy she roused herself. “Don’t hesitate, Cousin Basil!” she said, with a hint of shyness. “Do you think you could manage to sound your friend’s ideas on the subject?” “My friend ... the subject!” she echoed, blankly. Whatever doubt and surprise she might have felt before was transformed into complete puzzlement. She was coming back from so great a distance! “Yes--your friend Laurence, of course! You see,” he continued, more easily now that he had burned his bridges behind him--“you see, my ‘Gamin,’ ridiculous or not, my whole future life is centered upon her. I fell in love with her the minute I set eyes upon her, and if she refuses to marry me--” With a wild scramble that all but threw her headlong over the precipice the “Gamin” jumped up. She was ashy white, and as he caught her--as it were in mid-air--he felt that she was shaking, literally from head to foot. “Are you crazy?” he demanded, holding her tightly in his arms, as if afraid that she would try to escape. “Lord! how you startled me. What do you mean by dancing about like that in such a place!” She saw that he was badly frightened, for his voice trembled as he spoke, and she disengaged herself quietly, and in a curiously calm tone apologized. “I am very sorry, _mon cousin_. I hope you will forgive the scare I gave you,” she said, simply. “_Sacré_...!” The rest of the heartfelt string of objurgations rising in his throat bumped against his teeth, and he swallowed it whole, so to speak. She had returned a few paces, and, picking up her basket, was standing cold and pale as a lily, scanning the horizon. “Plenhöel should hire a keeper for you!” Basil cried, with that vengeful irritation which invariably succeeds great frights. “You are not fit to be trusted out alone!” “Thank you very much, _mon bon cousin_!” she said, with a little courtesy in his direction. “Not you, I hope, however. He might find you inadequate--and, besides, if you will now take the trouble to look yonder, behind the _menhir_, you will see Hortense Gervex dozing over her knitting. _She_ is my keeper.” “A famous guardian!” Basil deprecated in disgust. “As a matter of fact you have jumbled my ideas so that I scarcely remember what I was talking to you about!”