At the end of the ten seconds she kissed Cinders, with the remark,
"Chappie, that little Frenchman is a trump. I'm sure Jack would think
so." She and Jack Forest generally saw things in the same light, which
may have been the reason that Chris valued his opinion so highly.

She postponed her visit to the shore till the afternoon in consideration
of the fact that her sense of boredom had completely evaporated. After
all, what was there to be bored about? Life was quite interesting again.

The tide was on the ebb when she finally set forth. She directed her
steps towards a little patch of firm sand which she regarded as
peculiarly her own. The shore was deserted as usual. The _bonnes_
preferred the _plage_.

Would he be there before her, she wondered? Yes; almost at once she spied
him in the distance. He had discarded his uniform, in favour of white
linen. She regretted his preference somewhat, but admitted to herself
that linen might be cooler.

He was very busy with a swagger-cane, drawing in the sand, far too intent
to note her approach, and as he drew he hummed a madrigal in his soft
voice.

Noiselessly Chris drew near, a dancing imp of mischief in her eyes. She
wanted to get a glimpse of the work of art that he was elaborating with
such care before he discovered her. But his sensibilities were too subtle
for her. Quite suddenly he became aware of her and whizzed round.

He made her a low bow, but Chris waived the ceremony of greeting with