“Well! it was that kind of thing you wished me to marry,” said M. de Cymier, in a tone of resentment.

“But, my poor friend, what would you have?  All young girls are like that.  They improve when they are married.”

“If one could only be sure.”

“One is never sure of anything, especially anything relating to young girls.  One can not say that they do more than exist till they are married.  A husband has to make whatever he chooses out of them.  You are quite capable of making what you choose of your wife.  Take the risk, then.”

“I could educate her as to morals—­though, I must say, I am not much used to that kind of instruction; but you will permit me to think that, as to person, I should at least wish to see a rough sketch of what I may expect in my wife before my marriage.”

At that moment, a girl who had been bathing came out of the water a few yards from them; the elegant outline of her slender figure, clad in a bathing-suit of white flannel, which clung to her closely, was thrown into strong relief by the clear blue background of a summer sky.

“Tiens!—­but she is pretty!” cried Gerard, breaking off what he was saying:  “And she is the first pretty one I have seen!”

Madame de Villegry took up her tortoiseshell opera-glasses, which were fastened to her waist, but already the young girl, over whose shoulders an attentive servant had flung a wrapper—­a ’peignoir-eponge’—­had run along the boardwalk and stopped before her, with a gay “Good-morning!”

“Jacqueline!” said Madame de Villegry.  “Well, my dear child, did you find the water pleasant?”

“Delightful!” said the young girl, giving a rapid glance at M. de Cymier, who had risen.

He was looking at her with evident admiration, an admiration at which she felt much flattered.  She was closely wrapped in her soft, snow-white peignoir, bordered with red, above which rose her lovely neck and head.  She was trying to catch, on the point of one little foot, one of her bathing shoes, which had slipped from her.  The foot which, when well shod, M. de Talbrun, through his eyeglass, had so much admired, was still prettier without shoe or stocking.  It was so perfectly formed, so white, with a little pink tinge here and there, and it was set upon so delicate an ankle!  M. de Cymier looked first at the foot, and then his glance passed upward over all the rest of the young figure, which could be seen clearly under the clinging folds of the wet drapery.  Her form could be discerned from head to foot, though nothing was uncovered but the pretty little arm which held together with a careless grace the folds of her raiment.  The eye of the experienced observer ran rapidly over the outline of her figure, till it reached the dark head and the brown hair, which rippled in little curls over her forehead.  Her complexion, slightly golden, was not protected by one of those absurd hats which many bathers place on top of oiled silk caps which