The visitors of the Lion d’Or had finished their meal by this time, and were beginning to reassemble on the Digue, preparatory to taking a stroll before they turned into one of the many _cafés-chantants_, which were situated at stated intervals in front of the sea. Amongst them came the Baroness Gobelli, leaning heavily on a thick stick with one hand, and her husband’s shoulder with the other. The couple presented an extraordinary appearance, as they perambulated slowly up and down the Digue. She--with her great height and bulk, towering a head above her companion, whilst he--with a full-sized torso, and short legs--a large hat crammed down upon his forehead, and no neck to speak of, so that the brim appeared to rest upon his shoulders--was a ludicrous figure, as he walked beside his wife, bending under the weight of her support. But yet, she was actually proud of him. Notwithstanding his ill-shaped figure, the Baron possessed one of those mild German faces, with pale watery blue eyes, a long nose, and hair and beard of a reddish-golden colour, which entitled him, in the estimation of some people, to be called a handsome man, and the Baroness was never tired of informing the public that his head and face had once been drawn for that of some celebrated saint. Her own appearance was really comical, for though she had plenty of means, her want of taste, or indifference to dress, made everyone stare at her as she passed. On the present occasion, she wore a silk gown which had cost seventeen shillings a yard, with a costly velvet cloak, a bonnet which might have been rescued from the dustbin, and cotton gloves with all her fingers out. She shook her thick walking-stick in Miss Leyton’s face as she passed by her, and called out loud enough for everyone to hear: “And when is the handsome Captain coming to join you, Miss Leyton, eh? Take care he ain’t running after some other gal! ‘When pensive I thought on my L.O.V.E.’ Ha! ha! ha!” Elinor flushed a delicate pink but did not turn her head, nor take any notice of her tormentor. She detested the Baroness with a perfectly bitter hatred, and her proud cold nature revolted from her coarseness and familiarity. “Tied to your brat again!” cried the Baroness, as she passed Margaret Pullen who was moving the perambulator gently to and fro by the handle, so as to keep her infant asleep; “why didn’t you put it in the tub as soon as it was born? It would ’ave saved you a heap of trouble! I often wish I had done so by that devil Bobby! ’Ere, where are you, Bobby?” “I’m close behind you, Mamma!” replied the simple-looking youth. “Well! don’t you get running away from your father and me, and winking at the gals! There’s time enough for that, ain’t there, Gustave?” she concluded, addressing the Baron.