On a bright and beautiful morning, the first of all the days for many weeks--for Bulstrode reckoned his calendar in broken bits, beginning a New Year each time he saw his lady again--a bright and beautiful morning he walked out at the fashionable hour of noon and turned into the Rue de Paris. The eyes of many women followed Bulstrode. Being an early riser, he had already taken a brisk walk over the cliffs, had swum out beyond the buoys, and now in his flannels, his panama, a gay rose in the lapel of his coat, amongst the many debonnaire and pleasing people who filled the little fishing town, his was a distinguished figure. He trusted very much to instinct to discover his friend, and after a few moments found her at the extreme end of the street which the papers of Paris tell you is "the most worldly and fashionable in any part of the Continent, during race week at Trouville." Mary Falconer was of course dressed in the very height of the mode. She looked up and saw Bulstrode before he saw her, but she could wait until he made his leisurely way down to her side. She waited for him a great deal. He did not know how much, but then her point of view and her feelings have never come into the history. It amused her to make him her many clever little bits of speech, for he was so appreciative of everything she said, and looking up at him now as he approached she said: "These people never seem to have anything to do, do they? Leisure is like money: to enjoy thoroughly either money or leisure one should only have a little of each. Now for us good-for-nothings who have no occupation it doesn't make much difference what we do or where we do it!" The lady's camp-stool had been set down at the end of the street. Those who are not promenading opened little _chaises pliantes_ and watched from their little seats. Mrs. Falconer sat facing the ocean, or what was visible of it between the bathing tents. Pagodas gay with children's shovels and bright pails, striped bonbons and the sea of muslins, ribbons and feathers and sunshades of the midsummer crowd. All the capitals of Europe had poured themselves into Trouville, and the resort overflowed with beauty and fashion. '"It's perfectly bewitching," Bulstrode said to her, "perfectly bewitching, and it makes one feel as though there were nothing but pleasure in the world." She wore a white dress and her hat was bright with flowers. She opened her rose-lined parasol over her head. "Jimmy," she said abruptly, and brought his eyes to hers like a flash, for he had been looking over the scene, "do you know I begin to see where the innkeeper found his rare treasures; _there are a great many other things_ that suggest them in this little street!" Bulstrode replied, "You don't want him to take them away, do you?" She shook her head. "No," she said slowly, "they have been a great pleasure, but I don't want to _buy_ them from him, either."