In the Casino gardens she walked more slowly, savouring the aromatic trees, and stopping to bend and look at almost every flower; then, on the seat, where she had sat with him yesterday, she rested.  A few paces away were the steps that led to the railway-station, trodden upwards eagerly by so many, day after day, night after night, and lightly or sorrowfully descended.  Above her, two pines, a pepper-tree, and a palm mingled their shade—­so fantastic the jumbling of trees and souls in this strange place!  She furled her sunshade and leaned back.  Her gaze, free and friendly, passed from bough to bough.  Against the bright sky, unbesieged as yet by heat or dust, they had a spiritual look, lying sharp and flat along the air.  She plucked a cluster of pinkish berries from the pepper-tree, crushing and rubbing them between her hands to get their fragrance.  All these beautiful and sweet things seemed to be a part of her joy at being loved, part of this sudden summer in her heart.  The sky, the flowers, that jewel of green-blue sea, the bright acacias, were nothing in the world but love.

And those few who passed, and saw her sitting there under the pepper-tree, wondered no doubt at the stillness of this dame bien mise, who had risen so early.

V

In the small hours, which so many wish were smaller, the Colonel had awakened, with the affair of the handkerchief swelling visibly.  His niece’s husband was not a man that he had much liking for—­a taciturn fellow, with possibly a bit of the brute in him, a man who rather rode people down; but, since Dolly and he were in charge of Olive, the notion that young Lennan was falling in love with her under their very noses was alarming to one naturally punctilious.  It was not until he fell asleep again, and woke in full morning light, that the remedy occurred to him.  She must be taken out of herself!  Dolly and he had been slack; too interested in this queer place, this queer lot of people!  They had neglected her, left her to. . .  Boys and girls!—­One ought always to remember.  But it was not too late.  She was old Lindsay’s daughter; would not forget herself.  Poor old Lindsay—­fine fellow; bit too much, perhaps, of the—­Huguenot in him!  Queer, those throw-backs!  Had noticed in horses, time and again—­white hairs about the tail, carriage of the head—­skip generations and then pop out.  And Olive had something of his look—­the same ivory skin, same colour of eyes and hair!  Only she was not severe, like her father, not exactly!  And once more there shot through the Colonel a vague dread, as of a trusteeship neglected.  It disappeared, however, in his bath.