With this he was less pleased; he had expected the traces of resentment, and he was actually disappointed at not finding them. But here was the little house of which his companion had spoken, and it seemed, indeed, a rather bad one. That is, it was one of those diminutive structures which are known at French watering-places as “chalets,” and, with an exiguity of furniture, are let for the season to families that pride themselves upon their powers of contraction. This one was a very humble specimen of its class, though it was doubtless a not inadequate abode for two quiet and frugal women. It had a few inches of garden, and there were flowers in pots in the open windows, where some extremely fresh white curtains were gently fluttering in the breath of the neighboring ocean. The little door stood wide open.
“This is where we live,” said Angela; and she stopped and laid her hand upon the little garden-gate.
“It ‘s very fair,” said Bernard. “I think it ‘s better than the pastry-cook’s at Baden.”
They stood there, and she looked over the gate at the geraniums. She did not ask him to come in; but, on the other hand, keeping the gate closed, she made no movement to leave him. The Casino was now quite out of sight, and the whole place was perfectly still. Suddenly, turning her eyes upon Bernard with a certain strange inconsequence—
“I have not seen you here before,” she observed.
He gave a little laugh.
“I suppose it ‘s because I only arrived this morning. I think that if I had been here you would have noticed me.”
“You arrived this morning?”
“Three or four hours ago. So, if the remark were not in questionable taste, I should say we had not lost time.”
“You may say what you please,” said Angela, simply. “Where did you come from?”