conclusion that she would die of _ennui_ if she attempted to endure it
any longer.

She did not arouse Mademoiselle's voluble protests by announcing her
decision. Mademoiselle was busy with the boys, and what was the good? She
was her own mistress, and felt in no way called upon to ask her
governess's leave.

Her foot was much better. The nurse had strapped it for her, and, beyond
some slight stiffness in walking, it caused her no pain. Her hair was
tied discreetly back with a black ribbon. It ought to have been plaited,
but as Mademoiselle had no time to bestow upon it and Chris herself
couldn't be bothered, it hung in glory below the confining ribbon to her
waist.

Whistling to Cinders, who was lying in the sunshine snapping at flies,
she rose from her chair in the shade, dropped the crochet with which
Mademoiselle had supplied her on the grass, and limped to the gate that
opened on to the _plage_.

At this juncture a rhythmical, unmistakable sound made her pause. A quick
gleam of pleasure shone in her blue eyes. She turned her head eagerly. A
troop of soldiers were approaching along the _plage_.

Sheer fun flashed into the girl's face. With a sudden swoop she caught up
the lazy Cinders.

"Now you are not to say anything," she cautioned him. "Only when I tell
you, you are to salute. And mind you do it properly!"