“We left Trouville in a hurry yesterday, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” replied Sylvia, “I suppose we did,” and she spoke as though this was the first time that she had given the matter a thought.

“Trouville was altogether too hot,” said Mrs. Thesiger; and again silence followed.  But Mrs. Thesiger was not content.  “How much does she know?” she speculated again, and was driven on to find an answer.  She raised herself upon her elbow, and while rearranging her pillow said carelessly: 

“Sylvia, our last morning at Trouville you were reading a book which seemed to interest you very much.”

“Yes.”

Sylvia volunteered no information about that book.

“You brought it down to the sands.  So I suppose you never noticed a strange-looking couple who passed along the deal boards just in front of us.”  Mrs. Thesiger laughed and her head fell back upon her pillow.  But during that movement her eyes had never left her daughter’s face.  “A middle-aged man with stiff gray hair, a stiff, prim face, and a figure like a ramrod.  Oh, there never was anything so stiff.”  A noticeable bitterness began to sound in her voice and increased as she went on.  “There was an old woman with him as precise and old-fashioned as himself.  But you didn’t see them?  I never saw anything so ludicrous as that couple, austere and provincial as their clothes, walking along the deal boards between the rows of smart people.”  Mrs. Thesiger laughed as she recalled the picture.  “They must have come from the Provinces.  I could imagine them living in a chateau on a hill overlooking some tiny village in—­where shall we say?” She hesitated for a moment, and then with an air of audacity she shot the word from her lips—­“in Provence.”

The name, however, had evidently no significance for Sylvia, and Mrs. Thesiger was relieved of her fears.

“But you didn’t see them,” she repeated, with a laugh.

“Yes, I did,” said Sylvia, and brought her mother up on her elbow again.  “It struck me that the old lady must be some great lady of a past day.  The man bowed to you and—­”

She stopped abruptly, but her mother completed the sentence with a vindictiveness she made little effort to conceal.

“And the great lady did not, but stared in the way great ladies have.  Yes, I had met the man—­once—­in Paris,” and she lay back again upon her pillow, watching her daughter.  But Sylvia showed no curiosity and no pain.  It was not the first time when people passed her mother that she had seen the man bow and the woman ignore.  Rather she had come to expect it.  She took her book from her berth and opened it.