Emilie had left. She could remember driving away over the rough road, leaning out of the window waving, waving until Alice was lost to sight. It had been that last picture which was to haunt Emilie now on her first night in the Hôtel de Paris. Alice with the sun on her face, her head thrown back, her fair hair glinting like a halo round her head, the wheels of the coach drawing them further and further apart.
She must have dreamt of Alice too lying in the big room on the warm, comfortable mattress, for when she awoke she heard her own voice whispering, ‘Alice, Alice!’
It seemed to start the day all wrong, and Mistral found her very cross at breakfast.
‘Oh, Aunt Emilie,’ Mistral cried. ‘This is the loveliest place in the whole world. I had no idea the sea could be so blue.’
‘Come and ea
