“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Nancy was vainly struggling to frame her reply according to the strictest truth. “I think he thought so; but now we don’t know.”
“I am afraid I do not understand,” St. Jacques said, with slow formality. “As your friend, I shall treat him with respect. Otherwise—”
“Oh, he isn’t my friend,” Nancy explained hurriedly. “We have had an awful fight; at least, not exactly a fight, but I was rude to him.”
St. Jacques interrupted her.
“Then it will make up for some of the times he has been rude to me, and I shall be still more in your debt.”
Nancy shook her head ruefully.
“No; we can’t square our accounts that way, M. St. Jacques. I have seen Mr. Barth detestably rude to you, and it never once has dawned upon him that he wasn’t the very pink of courtesy. With me, it was different. I did my very best, not only to be rude to him; but to have him know that I meant it.”
Again came the answering flash over the Frenchman’s face.
“I am very glad you did it,” he said briefly.
“I’m not, then,” Nancy said flatly. “I hate making apologies.”