Gianfrancesco stumbled belatedly onto the beach, his feet padding wet sand. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. He returned, blue towel in hand.
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