So the end of June found them settled comfortably enough in the Hotel du
Passage just across the bay from Douarnenez, where the great one had his
studio. Milly, who usually had some difficulty in adjusting herself to a
new situation and missed the freedoms of her own house, took to Klerac
after the first few days of strangeness. The tiny village and the sleepy
country were utterly unlike anything she had ever seen or dreamed of
before. Green branches of broad chestnut trees overhung the dark water
of the little bay, and a sea of the deepest purple lay out beyond the
headland and boomed against the sand-dunes. The bay and the brilliant
sea were perpetually alive with the fishing craft, which were
picturesquely adorned with colored sails. And inland, only a few steps
from all this vivid coloring of the sea, green lanes meandered between
lofty hedges of thick blackberry vines. Always, even among the remoter
fields, there was the muffled murmur of the sea on the sand and the tang
of salt in the air. The queer, dark little people of the place still
wore about their daily tasks their picturesque costumes, and spoke
little French. One met them as in an opera, gathering kelp on the beach,
driving their little tip carts through the lanes, or singing beside
their thatched cottages.
From her first exploratory walks with her husband Milly returned quite
ravished by the quality of the place, its beauty of colored sea and
peaceful country, and the little gray houses sheltered by large trees.
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