“No? Then what is he?”
“The best little Englishman that ever lived,” she answered promptly.
The lower lip of St. Jacques rolled out into his odd little smile.
“Then the game surely ought to be in the hands of the French,” he responded.
“You’re not fair to Mr. Barth,” Nancy said, as she stooped to pull off a spray of scarlet maple leaves from a bush at her feet.
“Perhaps not. Neither are you.”
“Yes, I am. He hasn’t a more loyal friend in America, M. St. Jacques.”
“I know that. It is not always fair to be too loyal.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes one wonder whether the game is worth the candle,” the Frenchman replied imperturbably. “One doesn’t fly to defend the strongest spot on the city wall.”