He was a slight man, with an ugly, clever
face; his voice as he greeted them, was very low and pleasant.
'You must have had a charming walk, Mademoiselle. I have seldom seen
Ploumariel look better.'
'Yes,' she said, gravely, 'it has been very pleasant. But I must not linger
now,' she added breaking a little silence in which none of them seemed
quite at ease. 'My uncle will be expecting me to supper.' She held out her
hand, in the English fashion, to Tregellan, and then to Sebastian Murch,
who gave the little fingers a private pressure.
They had come into the market-place round which most of the houses in
Ploumariel were grouped. They watched the young girl cross it briskly; saw
her blue gown pass out of sight down a bye street: then they turned to
their own hotel. It was a low, white house, belted half way down the front
with black stone; a pictorial object, as most Breton hostels. The ground
floor was a _cafe_; and, outside it, a bench and long stained table
enticed them to rest. They sat down, and ordered _absinthes_, as the hour
suggested: these were brought to them presently by an old servant of the
house; an admirable figure, with the white sleeves and apron relieving her
linsey dress: with her good Breton face, and its effective wrinkles.
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