“And have you been in the habit of making that your resort?” she inquired quickly.
“Since a good while back.”
“It is astonishing that I should not have seen you before,” she said, lying so boldly that Pitou was almost convinced.
But he was ashamed for her sake; he was timid from being in love and this led him to be guarded.
“I may have dozed off,” he replied; “it has happened when I have taxed my brain too much.”
“Then in your sleep you would not have noticed where I strayed for shade—I would go as far as the walls of the old shooting-lodge.”
“What lodge?” questioned Pitou.
“The Charny Hunting-lodge,” replied she, blushing from his innocence being too thickly laid on not to be suspicious. “It is there grow the finest houseleeks in the section. I burnt myself while ironing and wanted to make a poultice of them.”
As if willing to believe her, he looked at her hands.
“No, not my hand, my foot,” she said quickly. “I—I dropped the iron: but it has done me good; you see, that I do not limp.”