CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. “Yes. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom.
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