We went back once more to a the dansant given for her seventeen-year-old daughter.  It was a lovely afternoon and the place looked charming—­the gates open—­carriages and autos arriving in every direction—­people came from a great distance as with the autos no one hesitates to undertake a drive of a hundred kilometres.  The young people danced in the drawing-room—­Madame d’Y——­ had taken out all the furniture, and the parents and older people sat about on the terrace where there were plenty of seats and little tea-tables.  The dining-room—­with an abundant buffet—­was always full; one arrives with a fine appetite after whirling for two or three hours through the keen salt air.  The girls all looked charming—­the white dresses, bright sashes, and big picture hats are so becoming.  They were dancing hard when we left, about half past six, and it was a pretty sight as we looked back from the gates—­long lines of sunlight wavering over the grass, figures in white flitting through the trees, distant strains of music, and what was less agreeable, the strident sound of a sirene on some of the autos.  They are detestable things.

We were very comfortable at Villers in a nice, clean house looking on the sea, with broad balconies at every story, where we put sofas and tables and green blinds, using them as extra salons.  We were never in the house except to eat and sleep.  Nothing is more characteristic of the French (particularly in the bourgeoise) than the thorough way in which they do their month at the sea-shore.  They generally come for the month of August.  Holidays have begun and business, of all kinds, is slack.  Our plage was really a curiosity.  There is a splendid stretch of sand beach—­at low tide one can walk, by the shore, to Trouville or Houlgate on perfectly firm, dry sand.  There are hundreds of cabins and tents, striped red and white, and umbrellas on the beach, and all day long whole families sit there.  They all bathe, and a curious fashion at Villers is that you put on your bathing dress in your own house—­over that a peignoir, generally of red and white striped cotton, and walk quite calmly through the streets to the etablissement.  Some of the ladies and gentlemen of mature years are not to their advantage.  When they can, if they have houses with a terrace or garden, they take their meals outside, and as soon as they have breakfasted, start again for the beach.  When it is low tide they go shrimp-fishing or walk about in the shallow water looking for shells and sea-weed.  When it is high tide, all sit at the door of their tents sewing, reading, or talking—­I mean, of course, the petite bourgeoisie.

At other places on the coast, Deauville or Houlgate, the life is like Newport or Dinard, or any other fashionable seaside place, with automobiles, dinners, dressing, etc.  They get all the sea air and out-of-door life that they can crowd into one month.  One lady said to me one day, “I can’t bathe, but I take a ‘bain d’air’ every day—­I sit on the rocks as far out in the water as I can—­take off my hat and my shoes and stockings.”