“Let us sit down on that stone,” said she, “we can talk more comfortably.”  They scrambled up a rather high boulder, and when they had settled themselves side by side in the bright sunshine, she began again: 

“My good friend, you are no longer a child, and I am not a young girl. we both know perfectly well what we are about and we can weigh the consequences of our actions.  If you have made up your mind to make love to me to-day I must naturally infer that you wish to marry me.”

He was not prepared for this matter-of-fact statement of the case, and he answered blandly: 

“Why, yes.”

“Have you mentioned it to your father and mother?”

“No, I wanted to know first whether you would accept me.”

She held out her hand, which was still wet, and as he eagerly clasped it: 

“I am ready and willing,” she said.  “I believe you to be kind and true-hearted.  But remember, I should not like to displease your parents.”

“Oh, do you think that my mother has never foreseen it, or that she would not be as fond of you as she is if she did not hope that you and I should marry?”

“That is true.  I am a little disturbed.”

They said no more.  He, for his part, was amazed at her being so little disturbed, so rational.  He had expected pretty little flirting ways, refusals which meant yes, a whole coquettish comedy of love chequered by prawn-fishing in the splashing water.  And it was all over; he was pledged, married with twenty words.  They had no more to say about it since they were agreed, and they now sat, both somewhat embarrassed by what had so swiftly passed between them; a little perplexed, indeed, not daring to speak, not daring to fish, not knowing what to do.

Roland’s voice rescued them.

“This way, this way, children.  Come and watch Beausire.  The fellow is positively clearing out the sea!”

The captain had, in fact, had a wonderful haul.  Wet above his hips he waded from pool to pool, recognizing the likeliest spots at a glance, and searching all the hollows hidden under sea-weed, with a steady slow sweep of his net.  And the beautiful transparent, sandy-gray prawns skipped in his palm as he picked them out of the net with a dry jerk and put them into his creel.  Mme. Rosemilly, surprised and delighted, remained at his side, almost forgetful of her promise to Jean, who followed them in a dream, giving herself up entirely to the childish enjoyment of pulling the creatures out from among the waving sea-grasses.

Roland suddenly exclaimed: 

“Ah, here comes Mme. Roland to join us.”

She had remained at first on the beach with Pierre, for they had neither of them any wish to play at running about among the rocks and paddling in the tide-pools; and yet they had felt doubtful about staying together.  She was afraid of him, and her son was afraid of her and of himself; afraid of his own cruelty which he could not control.  But they sat down side by side on the stones.  And both of them, under the heat of the sun, mitigated by the sea-breeze, gazing at the wide, fair horizon of blue water streaked and shot with silver, thought as if in unison:  “How delightful this would have been—­once.”