different for the photographer.
She saw him wipe his face with his handkerchief, and as he packed up his camera and his tripod, and put them in the case, he looked exhausted and dragged his high boot more heavily than before.
She made a pretence of glancing through the snap-shots he had developed for her from her own film.
'These are very poor,' she said lightly. 'I don't think I handle my camera correctly. I should take lessons from you.'
'It is just a little practice that you need, Madame la Marquise,' he said. 'When I first started I had a camera much the same as yours. Even now, when I take exteriors, I wander out on the cliffs above the sea, with a small camera, and the effects are just as good as with the larger one.'
She put the snap-shots down on the table. He was ready to go. He carried the case in his hand.
'You must be very busy in the season,' she said. 'How do you get time to take exteriors?'
'I make time, Madame la Marquise,' he said. 'I prefer it, actually, to taking studio portraits. It is only occasionally that I find true satisfaction in photographing people. Like, for instance, today.'
She looked at him and she saw again the devotion, the humility, in his eyes. She stared at him until he dropped his eyes, abashed.
'The scenery is very beautiful along the coast,' he said. 'You must have noticed it, when walking. Most afternoons I take my small camera and go out on to the cliffs, above the big rock that stands there so prominent, to the right of the bathing beach.'
He pointed from the balcony and she followed the direction of his hand. The green headland shimmered hazily in the intense heat.
'It was only by chance that you found me at home yesterday,' he said. 'I was in the cellar, developing prints that had been promised for visitors who were to leave today. But usually I go walking on the cliffs at that time.'
'It must be very hot,' she said.
'Perhaps,' he answered. 'But above the sea there is a little breeze. And best of all, between one and four there are so few people. They are all taking their siesta in the afternoon. I have all that beautiful scenery to myself.'
'Yes,' said the Marquise, 'I understand.'
For a moment they both stood silent. It was as though something unspoken passed between them. The Marquise played with her chiffon handkerchief, then tied it loosely round her wrist, a casual, lazy gesture.
'Some time I must try it for myself,' she said at last, 'walking in the heat of the day.'
Miss Clay came on to the balcony, calling the children to come and be washed before dejeuner. The photographer stepped to one side, deferential, apologising. And the Marquise, glancing at her watch, saw that it was already midi, and that the tables below on the terrace were filled with people and the usual bustle and chatter was going on, the tinkle of glasses, the rattle of plates, and she had noticed none of it.
She turned her shoulder to the photographer, dismissing him, deliberately cool and indifferent now that the session was over and Miss Clay had come to fetch the children.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I shall call in at the shop to see the proofs in a few days' time. Good-morning.'
He bowed, he went away, an employee who had fulfilled his orders.
'I hope he has taken some good photographs,' said Miss Clay. 'The Marquis will be very pleased to see the results.'
The Marquise did not answer. She was taking off the gold clips from her ears that now, for some reason, no longer matched her mood. She would go down to dejeuner without jewellery, without rings; she felt, for today, her own beauty would suffice.
Three days passed, and the Marquise did not once descend into the little town. The first day she swam, she watched the tennis in the afternoon. The second day she spent with the children, giving Miss Clay leave of absence to take a tour by charabanc to visit the old walled cities, further inland, along the coast. The third day, she sent Miss Clay and the children into the town to enquire for the proofs, and they returned with them wrapped in a neat package. The Marquise examined them. They were very good indeed, and the studies of herself the best she had ever had taken.
Miss Clay was in raptures. She begged for copies to send home to England. 'Who would believe it,' she exclaimed, 'that a little photographer, by the sea like this, could take such splendid pictures? And then you go and pay heaven knows what to real professionals in Paris.'
'They are not bad,' said the Marquise, yawning. 'He certainly took a lot of trouble. They are better of me than they are of the children.' She folded the package and put it away in a drawer. 'Did Monsieur Paul seem pleased with them himself?' she asked the governess.
'He did not say,' replied Miss Clay. 'He seemed disappointed that you had not gone down for them yourself; he said they had been ready since yesterday. He asked if you were well, and the children told him maman had been swimming. They were quite friendly with him.'
'It's much too hot and dusty, down in the town,' said the Marquise.
The next afternoon, when Miss Clay and the children were resting and the hotel itself seemed asleep under the glare of the sun, the Marquise changed into a short sleeveless frock, very simple and plain, and softly, so as not to disturb the children, went downstairs, her small box camera slung over her arm, and walking through the hotel grounds on to the sands she followed a narrow path that led upwards, to the greensward above. The sun was merciless. Yet she did not mind. Here on the springing grass there was no dust, and presently, by the cliff's edge, the bracken, growing thicker, brushed her bare legs.
The little path wound in and out amongst the bracken, at times coming so close to the cliff's edge that a false step, bringing a stumble, would spell danger. But the Marquise, walking slowly, with the lazy swing of the hips peculiar to her, felt neither frightened nor exhausted. She was merely intent on reaching a spot that overlooked the great rock, standing out from the coast in the middle of the bay. She was quite alone on the headland. No one was in sight. Away behind her, far below, the white walls of the hotel, and the rows of bathing cabins on the beach, looked like bricks, played with by children. The sea was very smooth and still. Even where it washed upon the rock in the bay it left no ripple.
Suddenly the Marquise saw something flash in the bracken ahead of her. It was the lens of a camera. She took no notice. Turning her back, she pretended to examine her own camera, and took up a position as though to photograph the view. She took one, took another, and then she heard the swish of someone walking towards her through the bracken.
She turned, surprised. 'Why, good afternoon, Monsieur Paul,' she said.
He had discarded the cheap stiff jacket and the bright blue shirt. He was not on business. It was the hour of the siesta, when he walked, as it were, incognito. He wore only the vest and a pair of dark blue trousers, and the grey squash hat, which she had noticed with dismay the morning he had come to the hotel, was also absent. His thick dark hair made a frame to his gentle face. His eyes had such a rapturous expression at the sight of her that she was forced to turn away to hide her smile.
'You see,' she said lightly, 'I have taken your advice, and strolled up here to look at the view. But I am sure I don't hold my camera correctly. Show me how.'
He stood beside her and, taking her camera, steadied her hands, moving them to the correct position.
'Yes, of course,' she said, and then moved away from him, laughing a little, for it had seemed to her that when he stood beside her and guided her hands she had heard his heart beating, and the sound brought excitement, which she wished to conceal from him.
'Have you your own camera?' she said.
'Yes, Madame la Marquise,' he answered, 'I left it over in the bracken there, with my coat. It is a favourite spot of mine, close to the edge of the cliff. In spring I come here to watch the birds and take photographs of them.'
'Show me,' she said.
He led the way, murmuring 'Pardon,' and the path he had made for himself took them to a little clearing, like a nest, hidden on all sides by bracken that was now waist-high. Only the front of the clearing was open, and this was wide to the cliff face, and the sea.
'But how lovely,' she said, and passing through the bracken into the hiding-place she looked about her,
