She rode slowly up the sandy avenue of the country house, and drew rein before the broad steps.

"Good morning, Odette!" Mme. Descoutures called to her, leaning over the balustrade. "Come up here before you go into the house. I wish to have a little talk with you."

"Is my father at home?"

"No; he has gone out for a walk, with my husband."

Odette called her groom and dismounted. Gathering the long black train of her riding habit in her hand, she quietly ascended the steps leading to the terrace facing the sea. Mme. Descoutures met her with an embrace and the exclamation:

"Heavens! how lovely you are!"

Odette was wonderfully beautiful this morning. Her habit showed her exquisite form to the best advantage, graceful and flexible as a young willow tree. The transparent complexion was slightly flushed from her ride; the forehead, crossed by a delicate line between the eye-brows, was gilded by the warm reflection from her glorious golden hair.

A strange contrast—her eyes were dark. Large, black eyes, beaming with intelligence and cultivation, but shadowed by an expression of pride and sadness. She stood before her friend, straight and slender; her lips parted in a slight smile, and the rich splendor of her hair shining in the sunbeams. Mme. Descoutures continued:

"You are simply magnificent! But I called you to give you a scolding, and here I am paying you compliments!"

Odette sank carelessly into one of the arm-chairs on the terrace.

"My dear child, I am worried about you. Your whole character seems to be changing. Every one is speaking about it. You were always gay and happy until this Winter, while now!—I know you must find it very dull here, of course, but it was your own choice to come. You could have stayed in Paris if you had wished to. Are you listening to me?"

"Certainly."

"Since you are here, can you not try to be a little more agreeable? You have seemed tired and languid ever since you came home from Pornic, and, what is worse, this ennui seems to be increasing every day. You have not looked in a book for a whole month. In spite of your passion for music, you have not once opened the piano this Winter. It is the same way with your painting. Your only pleasure seems to be to sit by the sea, and stare at it. Of course, it is very fashionable to admire the sea; but I really think you might exert yourself to be a little more entertaining—not with me, of course. Friends of ten years' standing never try to entertain each other—but to your father's friends and mine. Are you listening?"

"Certainly."

"Forgive me for scolding you. I am giving you not only my own opinion, but that of others as well; Mme. Bricourt, for example. You know that Mme. Bricourt is an authority. She came to call on me yesterday while you were out driving with Paul Frager. She is very fond of you. You need not deny it. She thinks a great deal of you. According to her ideas, the education you have received is a disgrace, and there is no need to add to it by your conduct. You have never been baptized, never been to the communion, and, to tell the truth, you are a regular heathen. You do not even try to conceal it. It is your father's fault, I know. He is an atheist. So much the worse for him and for you. I am not shocked, of course, as I am somewhat advanced in my ideas, you know; but every one is not up to my standard, and many people are horrified."

This time Odette did not even reply "Certainly." Leaning back in her chair, she was gazing straight ahead. Far away the Mediterranean was lost to sight in a bank of crimson clouds. To the left lay Carqueirannes; its little houses, clinging to the hill, looked like a flock of black and white sheep. Now and then a group of fishermen could be seen dragging a long wet net across the beach. To the right stretched an immense pine forest, with here and there an oak tree, shining in the warm October sunbeams. Down to the right, between two small pine woods, lay the road leading from Carqueirannes to Canet, crossing the Toulon main highway farther on.

While Odette continued lost in her revery, her friend rambled on at ease. Corinne Descoutures was a happy woman. Most incomplete natures feel at least something of their incompleteness, but Corinne firmly believes herself the most beautiful and intellectual woman in the world. Her forty years do not trouble her in the least. She makes up by art all that she has lost by nature. She paints, of course, and very ridiculously—that is, when she has too much white on one side, there will be far too much red on the other. Her eye-brows would be very fine, only they are never twice in the same place. She thinks her tall form is queenly; her aquiline nose, an imperial profile; her extraordinary leanness, an exquisite fragility. As to her dresses, they are the delight of those who meet her, and the perpetual mortification of her friends. Her friendship with Odette came about by mere chance. M. Descoutures is one of those amateur scientists, gentle, modest and inoffensive, who revolve around some celebrated man, in humble adoration.

He had happened to become attached to Odette's father, and his wife had approved of this friendship (about the only point of agreement in their lives). The poor little man was extinguished by his wife—several inches taller than he. At first he struggled against his fate, but he soon saw that there is no use opposing a Mme. Descoutures! And, finally, just from living with her so long, he had arrived at a state of profound admiration for her.

Their friends spoke of him as "Corinne's husband," and "Corinne's husband" never complained; always approved of everything, and clung closer and closer to the great Laviguerie, who appreciated him in return. He left his dignified wife alone as much as possible, and she never complained. Knowing that Laviguerie wished to retire to the quiet of the country to write a scientific book, she had offered him her villa near Carqueirannes, which explains how they all four happened to be assembled there at present.

In spite of her sublime self-conceit, Corinne had to confess, at last, to herself that Odette was not paying her the least attention, and, tapping her gently on the shoulder, said:

"Odette! stop dreaming, and attend to me. I see you do not agree with me, and you are wrong."

"If it was your own opinion, my dear friend, I would accept it with pleasure; but why should I care for what Mme. Bricourt says? I know I am an atheist, a materialist, and spoiled by reading too much. People tell all sorts of stories about me. My father brought me up according to his ideas, and I thank him for it. You must take me as I am. Does my education disgrace me? I have learned by it the most thorough contempt for what is called religion. My ideas are shocking, I suppose, because I always tell the truth. I have read books that a young girl ought not to read, they say. They have educated me, so I am not a doll, like most young ladies. But I have disdainfully refused the hand of Amable Bricourt—that is my crime. His venerable mother (as he calls her) will never forgive me for having disappointed her admirable son (as she calls him)."

Corinne replied roguishly: "Ah! you prefer Paul Frager's company."

Odette shrugged her shoulders. "M. Frager is as little to me as the admirable son himself, or any of those who have proposed to me. I shall never marry, as I have already told you a hundred times. Only I believe he is unhappy; for some reason he does not live with his mother, and I know he grieves over it. Besides that, he talks well, is very intelligent and cultivated, and has one great advantage over everybody else—he never has made love to me."

"What! he never has made love to you?"

"Never, in any way."

"He has been completely devoted to you for the past year. Why, knowing you to be here, he has come to pass the Winter at Canet, not a mile away!"

Odette burst into a silvery laugh.

"Who knows? he may have come solely on your account, dear Corinne." But before her friend could reply, she continued: "To tell the truth, I am bored to death."

"Since your trip to Pornic!"

Mme. Descoutures said these words with some emphasis, which Odette seemed to understand, as she grew pale. A yellow lightning shot across the depths of her dark eyes. Her lips moved as if she were about to speak, but, evidently changing her mind, she sank again into her revery, her eyes fixed on the sea.

"Have I annoyed you?" Corinne asked gently; "then let us leave this subject. Have you heard from Germaine to-day?"

The name of Germaine roused Odette again. "No," she replied. "No letter from her for three days. If I do not hear before to-night, I shall telegraph to Naples. I am afraid she is sick."

She rose and paced up and down the terrace in great agitation. Her face expressed the deepest anxiety.

"Come, come, do not be so distressed! Germaine, perhaps, has been kept busy by her aunt; you know Mme. Rozan's health is very delicate. But see, while we have been chatting, the gentlemen have finished their stroll, and are returning by the beach."

The young girl smoothed her forehead with her hand as if to drive away the shadow lurking there, and, leaning over the balustrade, threw a kiss to the gentlemen below. Then, turning to Mme. Descoutures, with a gesture of supreme contempt, she added: "As to the venerable Mme. Bricourt, I do not care a straw for her opinion. As to Paul Frager, he is not at all in love with me. He lives solitary, away from his family, and I intend to keep him for a friend. I must go and take off my habit now. I will be back soon."