The Devil Stone

It was in the dusky, tepid twilight of a particularly hot, vaporous,
drowsy day at Aix-les-bains, in Savoy, that I passed through the hotel
garden, and prepared to take a languid stroll through the streets of
the little town. I was tired of having nothing to do and no one to
talk to; the other people staying at the Hotel de l'Europe were mostly
foreigners, and, apart from that, entirely uninteresting; and as to my
father, he was almost a nonentity to me at present, till his "course"
was completed. From early morn to dewy eve he was immersed in the
waters, either outwardly or inwardly, or both; and beyond occasional
glimpses of him, arrayed in a costume resembling that of an Arab
sheikh, being conveyed in pomp and a sedan chair to or from the baths,
I was, figuratively speaking, an orphan until table d' hôte.

As I crossed the verandah some one rose from a long chair, and,
throwing his book down, said, "Where are you going, Miss Durant? May I
come too?"

"If you like," I answered, politely but indifferently; "I am only
going to look for spoons."

"For--?"

"Spoons. I am collecting, you know; it is something to do--and one can
always give them away when one is tired of them."

So we sauntered along, side by side; and as we did so I began to feel
less bored, and more reconciled to the trouble of existence, and
finally amused and interested and flattered.