From the many-colored garments flapping on the clothes-lines, Nancy glanced down at a scarlet-coated child playing in the open doorway of a shop at her side.
“Don’t think of the sociological aspect of the case,” she advised him. “Once in a while, it is better to be simply picturesque than it is to be hygienic. I have seen a good deal of America; I know nothing to compare with this.”
St. Jacques picked his way daintily among the rubbish.
“I hope not. I also hope there’s not much in France.”
“You have been there?” Nancy questioned.
“Not yet. After two more years at Laval.”
“To live there?”
“Only to study. My home is here.”
“Not in Quebec?”
“No. In Rimouski. I am a countryman,” he added, with a smile.