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Are her cheeks glowing, are her eyes bright, is she having a good time? If not, take heed! There were four cheeks upon the beach at Weet-sur-Mer that morning glowing as I would have your true love's glow; drawing men's eyes and women's, too the one in admiration, the other in envy. Yes, envy! though more than one shivering fair spoke a low, slurring word about "those coarse Americans!"
Warm and fair dawned the morning; and having, at its leisure, duly arisen, bathed and breakfasted, the unemployed population of Weet-sur-Mer, male and female, sallied forth to throng the beach and Digue, to inhale the fresh air, to shake off so far as possible the effects of the evening's dissipations, and to exchange such toadstool growths of gossip as had sprung up over night.
But though all this was no doubt sufficiently diverting, Weet-sur-Mer was never gloriously, aggressively awake until the sun went down. The diversions of the day depended wholly upon the weather a dash of rain, a wind from the north, and, pouf! they were not thought of. Not so the festivities of the night. Nothing short of an earthquake could interfere with them.
That meal was followed by a period of torpor, then every one sought the beach the high, the low; the rich, the poor; the dowdy and the well-dressed; the virgin in white and the cocotte in scarlet; the thin and the obese; the French, the Dutch, the Italian yea, and the angular English, for Weet-sur-Mer attracted a crowd as hybrid as its name!
Rushford signed his name mechanically, dropped a franc into the itching palm, and waited till the messenger went out. Then he looked at the address on the envelope. It was: Proprietor Grand Hôtel Royal, Weet-sur-Mer. "Well," he said, "it's mine I guess there's no question of that I'm the proprietor pro tem," and he tore the envelope open. A low whistle escaped him as he read the message.
He comes in a special vessel a sheep-of-t'e-war," he added with a triumphant flourish. "He could pring mit' him t'e whole nafy of England, if he wish'!" Ah, what an honour for Weet-sur-Mer! And what a blow for the Grand Hôtel Splendide across the way!
"No," said Rushford, "I've never seen him. But we'll have to treat him well. He's the head of the British foreign office, Pelletan; and one of the high nobility. Beside him, Zeit-Zeit will look like thirty cents!" Distinguished arrivals at Weet-sur-Mer Even at this unaccustomed hour of the morning, the beach was black with people.
There was no time for hesitation. Rushford took it, signed the blank, and fished up the expected tip. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave!" he murmured, and looked at the address on the little white envelope. It read: M. le Propriétaire, Grand Hôtel Royal, Weet-sur-Mer. "The plot thickens!" he murmured. "Well, it's really for me. Let's see," and he tore it open.
Again the sun rose clear and bright, and again, having dispelled the mist and chill of the early morning, it lured forth for the inevitable promenade such of the sojourners at Weet-sur-Mer as had managed to get to bed before dawn.
Some had permitted themselves to doubt the story spread so industriously by Monsieur Pelletan and his friend, the notary the proprietor of the Grand Hôtel Splendide had counselled scepticism. Now they could doubt no longer, and they drew a deep breath. A ship of war at Weet-sur-Mer!
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