So before long we were once more going down the quay, in company with the porter—­whose lamentations at our abrupt departure were no doubt sincere as well as politic—­and a truck carrying our goods and chattels.  As yet, they were modest in number and respectable in appearance.  H.C. had not commenced his raid upon the old curiosity shops; had not yet encumbered himself with endless packages, from deal boxes containing old silver, to worm-eaten, fourteenth century carved-wood monks and madonnas, carefully wrapped in brown paper, and bound head, hand and foot (where these essentials were not missing) with cord.  All this came in due time, but to-day we were still dignified.

We passed without the walls and went down the quay.  All our surroundings were gay and brilliant.  Everything was life and movement, the life and movement of a Continental town.  The “gentle gales” wooed the trees, and the trees made music in the air.  The sun shone as it can only shine out of England.  The sky, wearing its purest blue, was flecked with white clouds pure as angels’ wings.  The boat we had recently left was discharging cargo, and her steam was quietly dying down.

Four old women—­each must have been eighty, at least—­were seated on a bench, knitting and smiling and looking as placid and contented as if the world and the sunshine had been made for them alone, and it was their duty to enjoy it to the utmost.  It was impossible to sketch them:  Time and Tide wait for no man, and even now the whistle of the Dinard boat might be heard shrieking its impatient warning round the corner:  but we took the old women with an instantaneous camera, and with wonderful result.  It was all over before they had time to pose and put on expressions; and when they found they had been photographed, they thought it the great event of their lives.  The mere fact is sufficient with these good folk; possession of the likeness is a very secondary consideration.  We left them crooning and laughing and casting admiring glances after H.C.—­even at eighty years of age:  possibly with a sigh to their lost youth.

Then we turned where the walls bend round and came in sight of the boat, steaming alongside the small stone landing-place and preparing for departure.

The passengers were not numerous.  A few men and women; the latter with white caps and large baskets, who had evidently been over to St. Malo for household purposes, and were returning with the resigned air—­it is very pathetic—­that country women are so fond of wearing when they have been spending money and lessening the weight of the stocking which contains their treasured hoard.

We mounted the bridge, which, being first-class and an extra two or three sous, was deserted.  These thrifty people would as soon think of burning down their cottages, as of wasting two sous in a useless luxury—­all honour to them for the principle.  But we, surveying human nature from an elevation, felt privileged to philosophise.