“Never!” she protested, with what proved to be strict adherence to truth.
“And what about the Basilica?” Brock asked her.
“Superb!” Nancy’s eyes lighted. “I was there, a few days ago. It was empty, and it didn’t impress me in the least. It seemed to me a dead weight of white enamel paint and gold leaf, so heavy that it wasn’t even cheerful. But to-day—”
“To-day?” he echoed interrogatively.
But Nancy made an unexpected digression.
“Mr. Brock, what is that huge pinky-purple Tam O’Shanter dangling above the chancel?”
“Miss Howard, where was your bump of reverence, and where were your guide-books?”
“My bump of reverence was fastened down with hatpins, and my guide-books are buried in the bottom of my trunk.”
“Since when?”
“Since I made the discovery that Quebec must be inhaled, not analyzed,” she responded promptly.