"Quiet hotels, but smart, nice? He'd tell of one, yes, miss, he would." It was only as they went on that Esmé realized the smirk of innuendo on the man's red face. "Often driven parties there as wanted to be quiet an' comfabul," said Jehu, taking a shilling graciously. "Thank you, lady, and good luck." Esmé went to two or three places, read the dinner menu carefully, made Angy wonder what restless spirit possessed her, then came to the jarvey's recommendation, a small hotel facing the sea, standing modestly behind a long strip of garden. The garden was full of roses and shrubs, so that the porch was almost concealed. The lady peering out of the little office was unmistakably French. "Madame wished to see the dinner menu--but certainly! Madame would want a private room, no doubt; the coffee-room was small and the tables already crowded." "It is a hotel of private rooms," said Esmé to herself. She went on to a small, dimly-lighted veranda, set with huge palms and cunningly-placed nooks. She paused abruptly. "I must go back! Oh, I must!" said Sybil's voice. "We shall miss the train--please let me." "My cousin cannot be any time. Most annoying her being out all day. Don't spoil a perfect day, little Sybil. There's a late train we can catch. Or, better still, hire a car and drive up." Esmé turned swiftly to her somewhat bewildered cavalier. "Oh, Mr Beerhaven," she said. "Will you go to the telephone--order dinner at the Metropole, and see if they have quails--and peaches. It's the best place, after all. I'll wait here for you. Hurry, or they won't have shot the quails." Angy left, ruminating on the logic of women. "But give me my letters," she heard Sybil plead. "Please do! You promised them if I came here to-day." "I promised--I will fulfil. After dinner you shall have your letters, little girl. Now, don't get silly and nervous." "Of course I'll send you that money when I can," Sybil faltered, "but--" "I won't ask you for the money. You were a good child to come here, little Sybil." Esmé looked in. Sybil was lying back in a long chair, her face white, her eyes half resentful, half fascinated. Jimmie Helmsley, bending over her, began to stroke her hands softly. His dark eyes bore no half thoughts in them. "After dinner," he whispered. "I won't tease you any more about that silly debt." Esmé pushed aside a spiky frond; she was righteously angry. "Oh, Sybil," she said. "Your mother asked me if I came across you to take you home in our car. I was sampling hotels and luckily ran you to earth." Sybil sprang up. Resentment, fascination, merged to sudden wild relief. She had told her mother that she was spending the day with a school friend. "But--How very lucky your running across us." Gore Helmsley's teeth showed too much as he smiled; it made his greeting exceedingly like a snarl.