Bernard walked beside her, and for some moments nothing was said between them. As the silence continued, he became aware of it, and it vexed him that she should leave certain things unsaid.
She had asked him no question--neither whence he had come, nor how long he would stay, nor what had happened to him since they parted.
He wished to see whether this was intention or accident. He was already complaining to himself that she expressed no interest in him, and he was perfectly aware that this was a ridiculous feeling.
He had come to speak to her in order to tell her that he was going away, and yet, at the end of five minutes, he had asked leave to come and see her. This sudden gyration of mind was grotesque, and Bernard knew it; but, nevertheless, he had an immense expectation that, if he should give her time, she would manifest some curiosity as to his own situation. He tried to give her time; he held his tongue; but she continued to say nothing. They passed along a sort of winding lane, where two or three fishermen's cottages, with old brown nets suspended on the walls and drying in the sun, stood open to the road, on the other side of which was a patch of salt-looking grass, browsed by a donkey that was not fastidious.
"It 's so long since we parted, and we have so much to say to each other!"
Bernard exclaimed at last, and he accompanied this declaration with a laugh much more spontaneous than the one he had given a few moments before.
It might have gratified him, however, to observe that his companion appeared to see no ground for joking in the idea that they should have a good deal to say to each other.
"Yes, it 's a long time since we spent those pleasant weeks at Baden," she rejoined. "Have you been there again?"
This was a question, and though it was a very ****** one, Bernard was charmed with it.
"I would n't go back for the world!" he said. "And you?"
"Would I go back? Oh yes; I thought it so agreeable."
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?"
Interrogation, now it had come, was most satisfactory, and Bernard was glad to believe that there was an element of the unexpected in his answer.
"From California."
"You came straight from California to this place?"
"I arrived at Havre only yesterday."
"And why did you come here?"
"It would be graceful of me to be able to answer--'Because I knew you were here.' But unfortunately I did not know it.
It was a mere chance; or rather, I feel like saying it was an inspiration."
Angela looked at the geraniums again.
"It was very singular," she said. "We might have been in so many places besides this one. And you might have come to so many places besides this one."
"It is all the more singular, that one of the last persons I saw in America was your charming friend Blanche, who married Gordon Wright.
She did n't tell me you were here."
"She had no reason to know it," said the girl. "She is not my friend--as you are her husband's friend."
"Ah no, I don't suppose that. But she might have heard from you."
"She does n't hear from us. My mother used to write to her for a while after she left Europe, but she has given it up."
She paused a moment, and then she added--"Blanche is too silly!"
Bernard noted this, wondering how it bore upon his theory of a spiteful element in his companion. Of course Blanche was silly; but, equally of course, this young lady's perception of it was quickened by Blanche's having married a rich man whom she herself might have married.
"Gordon does n't think so," Bernard said.
Angela looked at him a moment.
"I am very glad to hear it," she rejoined, gently.
"Yes, it is very fortunate."
"Is he well?" the girl asked. "Is he happy?"
"He has all the air of it."
"I am very glad to hear it," she repeated. And then she moved the latch of the gate and passed in. At the same moment her mother appeared in the open door-way. Mrs. Vivian had apparently been summoned by the sound of her daughter's colloquy with an unrecognized voice, and when she saw Bernard she gave a sharp little cry of surprise.
Then she stood gazing at him.