“It seems such a pity not to have people over to dinner when there are such nice operettas and vaudevilles every night at the Casino,” she sighed. “And if you had them over to dinner, how do you suppose they would get back?” asked her husband, sternly. “Would you wish to keep them all till next morning, and be bored with them at breakfast?” That intervening strip of sea, narrow as it was, afforded unspeakable comfort to Lord Cheriton. It was an excuse for refusing to go over and take afternoon tea with people he was supposed to hold in his heart of hearts in the way of friendship. “You can go, Maria, if you like,” he told his wife; “but I am not a good sailor, and I came here on purpose to be quiet.” This was his Lordship’s answer to every hospitable suggestion. He had come to Paramé for rest; and not for gadding about, or entertainments of any kind. So the long summer days succeeded each other in a lazy monotony, and whatever gaiety there might be in the great white hotel, the English law-lord and his wife had no share in it. They occupied a suite of light, airy rooms in the west pavilion, and were served apart from the vulgar herd, after the fashion which befitted a person of Lord Cheriton’s distinction. They had only their body servants, man and maid, so they were waited upon by the servants of the hotel, and they drove about the dusty, level roads between St. Servans and Dol in a hired landau, driven by a Breton coachman. Lady Cheriton was dull, but contented. She had always submitted to her husband’s pleasure. He had been a very indulgent husband in essentials, and he had made her a peeress. Her married life had been eminently satisfactory; and she could afford to endure one summer month of monotony amidst pleasant surroundings. She dropped in at the Casino every evening, while Lord Cheriton read the papers in the seclusion of his salon—with the large French window wide open to the blue sea, and the blue moonlight—hearing the tramp of feet on the terrace, or the sea wall beyond, or now and again strains of lively music from the theatre, where the little opera company from Paris were singing Lecocq’s joyous music. People used to turn round to look at Lady Cheriton as she walked gravely between the rows of seats to her place near the orchestra, his Lordship’s valet following with an extra shawl, an opera-glass, and a footstool. He established her in her chair, and then retired discreetly to the back of the theatre to await her departure, and to escort her safely back to the hotel. He was a large, serious-looking man, a French Swiss, who had lived ten years in Italy, and over fifteen years in Lord Cheriton’s service, and who spoke French, Italian, German, and English indifferently.