Presently, as the dusk fell, the procession of lanterns could be seen
wending its way from the further end of the Digue. It was a very pretty
and fantastical sight. The bearers were not only children--many grown
men and women took part in it, and the devices into which the Chinese
lanterns had been formed were quaint and clever. Some held a ring
around them, as milkmaids carry their pails--others held crosses and
banners designed in tiny lanterns, far above their heads. One, which
could be seen topping all the rest, was poised like a skipping-rope
over the bearer’s shoulders, whilst the coloured lanterns swung inside
it, like a row of bells. The members of the procession shouted, or
sang, or danced, or walked steadily, as suited their temperaments, and
came along, a merry crowd, up and down the Digue, stopping at the
various hotels for largesse in the shape of cakes and sugar-plums. Ralph Pullen found his eyes wandering more than once in the direction
of the Baroness’s sitting-room, to see if he could catch a glimpse of
her or her _protégée_ (as Harriet Brandt seemed to be now universally
acknowledged to be), but he heard no sound, nor caught a glimpse of
them, and concluded in consequence that they had left the hotel again. “Whoever is carrying that skipping-rope of lanterns seems to be in a
merry mood,” observed Margaret after a while, “for it is jumping up and
down in the most extravagant manner! She must be dancing! Do look,
Elinor!”

“I see! I suppose this sort of childish performance amuses a childish
people, but for my own part, I think once of it is quite enough, and am
thankful that we are not called upon to admire it in England!”

“O! I think it is rather interesting,” remarked Margaret, “I only wish
my dear baby had been well enough to enjoy it! How she would have
screamed and cooed at those bright-coloured lanterns! But when I tried
to attract her attention to them just now, she only whined to be put
into her cot again. How thankful I shall be to see dear Doctor Phillips
to-morrow!”

The procession had reached the front of the Hotel by this time, and
halted there for refreshment. The waiters, Jules and Phillippe and
Henri, appeared with plates of dessert and cakes and threw them
indiscriminately amongst the people. One of the foremost to jump and
scramble to catch the falling sweetmeats was the girl who carried the
lantern-skipping rope above her head, and in whom Ralph Pullen, to his
astonishment, recognised Harriet Brandt. There she was, fantastically
dressed in a white frock, and a broad yellow sash, with her magnificent
hair loose and wreathed with scarlet flowers. She looked amazingly
handsome, like a Bacchante, and her appearance and air of abandon, sent
the young man’s blood into his face and up to the roots of his fair
hair. “Surely!” exclaimed Margaret, “that is never Miss Brandt!”

“Yes! it is,” cried Harriet, “I’m having the most awful fun! Why don’t
you come too? I’ve danced the whole way up the Digue, and it is so
warm! I wish the waiters would give us something to drink! I’ve eaten
so many bonbons I feel quite sick!”

“What will you take, Miss Brandt?” asked Captain Pullen eagerly,
“_limonade_ or soda water?”

“A _limonade_, please! You _are_ good!” she replied, as he handed her
the tumbler over the balcony balustrades. “Come along and dance with
me!”

“I cannot! I am with my sister and Miss Leyton!” he replied. “O! pray do not let _us_ prevent you,” said Elinor in her coldest
voice; “Margaret was just going upstairs and I am quite ready to
accompany her!”

“No, no, Elinor,” whispered Mrs. Pullen with a shake of her head, “stay
here, and keep Ralph company!”

“But it is nearly ten o’clock,” replied Miss Leyton, consulting her
watch, “and I have been on my feet all day! and feel quite ready for
bed. Good-night, Ralph!” she continued, offering him her hand. “Well! if you two are really going to bed, I shall go too,” said
Captain Pullen, rising, “for there will be nothing for me to do here
after you’re gone!”

“Not even to follow the procession?” suggested Miss Leyton, with a
smile. “Don’t talk nonsense!” he rejoined crossly. “Am I the sort of man to go
bobbing up and down the Digue amongst a parcel of children?”

He shook hands with them both, and walked away rather sulkily to his
own quarter of the hotel. But he did not go to bed. He waited until
some fifteen minutes had elapsed, and then telling himself that it
was impossible to sleep at that hour, and that if Elinor chose to
behave like a bear, it was not his fault, he came downstairs again and
sauntered out on the sea front. It was very lonely there at that moment. The procession had turned and
gone down to the other end again, where its lights and banners could be
seen, waving about in the still summer air. “Why shouldn’t the girl jump about and enjoy herself if she chooses,”
thought Ralph Pullen. “Elinor makes no allowances for condition or age,
but would have everyone as prim and old-maidish as herself. I declare
she gets worse each time I see her! A nice sort of wife she will make
if this kind of thing goes on! But by Jingo! if we are ever married,
I’ll take her prudery out of her, and make her--what? The woman who
commences by pursing her mouth up at everything, ends by opening it
wider than anybody else! There’s twice as much harm in a prude as in
one of these frank open-hearted girls, whose eyes tell you what they’re
thinking of, the first time you see them!”

He had been strolling down the Digue as he pondered thus, and now
found himself meeting the procession again. “Come and dance with me,” cried Harriet Brandt, who, apparently as
fresh as ever, was still waving her branch of lanterns to the measure
of her steps. He took her hand and tried to stop her. “Haven’t you had about enough of this?” he said, “I’m sure you must be
tired. Here’s a little boy without a lantern! Give him yours to hold,
and come for a little walk with me!”

The touch of his cool hand upon her heated palm, seemed to rouse all
the animal in Harriet Brandt’s blood. Her hand, very slight and lissom,
clung to his with a force of which he had not thought it capable, and
he felt it trembling in his clasp. “Come!” he repeated coaxingly, “you mustn’t dance any more or you will
overtire yourself! Come with me and get cool and rest!”

She threw her branch of lanterns to the boy beside her impetuously. “Here!” she cried, “take them! I don’t want them any more! And take me
away,” she continued to Ralph, but without letting go of his hand. “You
are right! I want--I want--rest!”

Her slight figure swayed towards him as he led her out of the crowd,
and across a narrow street, to where the road ran behind all the houses
and hotels, and was dark and empty and void. The din of the voices, and
the trampling of feet, and the echo of the songs still reached them,
but they could see nothing--the world was on the Digue, and they were
in the dusk and quietude together--and alone.