It is too fleeting, this little taste of beauty that cannot last. A morning in Dinard, envious looks at hotels and houses. Glamorous once, a retreat of artists and actors, a rival of Biarritz. I want to stay, as I always do in a place of beauty that is not my own. I dream and I envy. I long for permanence, to belong, to own. Soon it will be time to leave. The thought makes me a little cross. I have not mastered the art of living in the moment.