Francie Again Read Free Page A

Barclay was getting about, now and then, without her cane. It was the sun, she said gratefully. She could feel it sinking into her bones and comforting them.
    One afternoon Francie squeezed out on the balcony and peered down at the sandy ribbon that curled around the hotel’s feet and stretched down the coast. On one side stood an ancient fort. On the other, the beach disappeared beyond an immense white turreted palace with its own private pier. Francie knew what it was like beyond. She knew all this stretch of coast. She had walked up and down as far as she had time to go between meals, or on decorous outings with Aunt Lolly. She knew the electric train line and the well-barbered gardens with their palm trees, and the dignified little villas, and the tame little hills. It was all very Los Angeles, she told herself. Not that she disliked California, when she was there! But one hadn’t come to Europe just for this.
    â€œAnyway, what do I want?” she demanded, bored with her own discontent. “I’m having a very good time. All these friends of Aunt Lolly’s are very nice. It would have been just the same in Paris, really.”
    But would it? Of course, even in Paris she wouldn’t have been allowed to lead the deliciously adventurous life she had vaguely imagined back in New York. In Paris, as here, her companions would have been friends of the Barclays, sober, quiet-living gentlefolk and their quiet, well-behaved young daughters and sons. But still it would have been Paris, a magic name, whereas Francie had never even heard of Estoril until a month ago.
    â€œAnd in Paris I’d have been hard at work by this time,” she added. “Here I’m just playing around. Tennis and golf and cards, and not really a terrific rush even so. That’s another thing; it seems to me people are awfully slow-moving in Portugal. They seem too peaceful.”
    Again she peered at the sand, disapprovingly, for it was hushed and deserted at three in the afternoon. In Estoril, most people liked to rest after a long, late lunch. At four, she knew, there would be a change when Portugal woke up. Then the beach would suddenly be thronged.
    â€œI think I’ll go swimming right now,” she resolved, “before I’m crowded out and stared at.” She put on her bathing suit and robe and hurried down to the beach door. It had been the subject of some argument with Mrs. Barclay as to whether a young girl ought to go out alone in this manner. Aunt Lolly said Francie should behave like the Portuguese girls they had heard of in Paris, who were carefully chaperoned everywhere they went.
    â€œBut you can’t go around with me,” Francie pointed out, “because it’s bad for you. And I’m not Portuguese, and they’re used to foreigners behaving in their own way. Phyllis Wilkinson goes around on her own.”
    It was a telling argument. Phyllis was the daughter of one of Aunt Lolly’s English acquaintances who were resident in Portugal.
    â€œIf you’re sure,” said Aunt Lolly uncertainly.
    â€œPositive.”
    So now, with a clear conscience, Francie stepped out to the beach, where the sand was hot enough to feel glowing even through the rope soles of her sandals. She dropped her towel and robe, and waded in for the first long swim of the afternoon. The water was cool for such a warm day, and as she went in deeper, moving slowly along the shallows, she felt her querulousness ebbing away. She swam straight out from the tall, civilized façade of the hotel, until at last she was satisfied and rolled over to paddle idly along with a backstroke, eyes closed against the sun.
    Over there beyond the shoreline, she mused, was a foreign country that held all kinds of possibilities. She was eager to know more than the countryside she had seen during the little motor tours she and Mrs. Barclay had taken, though that was fascinating. She wanted to know what the people were