Mademoiselle was busy with the boys, and what was the good?
She was her own mistress, and felt in no way called upon to ask her governess's leave.
Her foot was much better.

The nurse had strapped it for her, and, beyond some slight stiffness in walking, it caused her no pain.

Her hair was tied discreetly back with a black ribbon.

It ought to have been plaited, but as Mademoiselle had no time to bestow upon it and Chris herself couldn't be bothered, it hung in glory below the confining ribbon to her waist.
Whistling to Cinders, who was lying in the sunshine snapping at flies, she rose from her chair in the shade, dropped the crochet with which Mademoiselle had supplied her on the grass, and limped to the gate that opened on to the _plage_.
At this juncture a rhythmical, unmistakable sound made her pause.

A quick gleam of pleasure shone in her blue eyes.