"Something that you find amusing, Roy!"
"It's only the letter. Do you know, that's from the girl he is going to marry some day. It's from Polly."
"Oui—" Lucille had already conjectured as much. "Mademoiselle Pol-ly! C'est un peu drole, ce nom-là."
"But 'tis not Mademoiselle Po-lee. 'Tis just Polly. You do say names so drolly—so French! Den says I'm not to cure you of talking as you do, because 'tis pretty. But her name really and truly isn't Polly. She is Mary Keene—only no one ever calls her Mary."
"Mademoiselle Marie Keene,—ah, oui. And is this Mademoiselle Keene pretty—gentille?"
"I should just think she was. The prettiest girl that ever was," declared Roy. "Though I like Molly best, you know, and she's not pretty. But Polly's nice too. May I go back now? Den has had lots of time."
"I would wait—ten minutes—why not? You have not yet unpacked for Monsieur."
Roy murmured one impatient "Bother!" and then his face cleared, and he complied. Ivor did not know how much he owed to Lucille, in being thus left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his letter.
He forgot all about both Lucille and Roy, when once he had it. The very touch of that thick paper, with its red seals, did him good. As he unfolded it, the weight on his brain lessened, and sight became more clear.
There was one sheet, square-shaped, written well over. Polly's letter came first, and another from somebody else followed it. Ivor did not trouble himself as to the authorship of the second, till he had read through the first. He scarcely vouchsafed it a glance.