I proceeded:
'I think-the best thing for us to do will be to get out at Calais; not go on to Paris. Suppose we went to some little seaside village in Brittany for a month or so? It must be very hot in Paris now.'
'I will do what you like,' she said.
'Very well,' I said, 'we'll get out at Calais.'
We had a beautiful crossing, the sea like a mill-pond. Rosy wasn't sick, nor was I. Fortune still favoured us. At Calais we got out, and I set about making inquiries as to the whereabouts of the desired little seaside village in Brittany. After many difficulties, that ended in—for me at any rate—complete weariness, I found out a place that seemed eligible, Pierlaix.
In Pierlaix we arrived that evening, and found our way to an inn, where we entered, and I demanded two rooms for the night, and something to eat at once. After some trouble, that would have been amusing if it had not been so dreary to us who were tired out, we were shown two rooms, a bedroom and (as we thought) a sitting-room, which I accepted on the spot, and proceeded to iterate my demands for a bath in the morning and something to eat and drink at once. (We were in the sitting-room.) They left us.
I opened the folding-windows wide, and stepped out onto the little balcony, into the noise of the sea and the coolness of the evening breeze from over it. As I leant on the rail I felt Rosy at my side, and turned to her. Poor child, how pale and tired she looked!
'Never mind. Rosebud,' said I, putting my arm round her shoulders and smiling at her. 'Keep your heart up! You'll be all right in the morning! I'm afraid the sea disturbed your little stomach. Do you feel ill?'
'No,' she said; 'I'm all right, thank you.'
'Then let's go up and wash ourselves. I feel filthy.' We went up into the bedroom together, and made some discoveries regarding the quantity of water here considered sufficient for the ablutions of two. However, this difficulty also was at last overcome; but we gave up the soap in despair. It was just after this that the fat hostess reappeared with considerable complacency, producing a species of scrubbing-brush, as
