“Shall St. Jacques and I fight it out in three rounds?” he inquired.
“That’s no test. You’re not English.”
“Not in the real sense of it. But neither is he French. We’re both of us relative terms.”
“And so useless for the sake of argument,” she replied.
“For the sake of nothing else, I trust,” Brock said lightly.
She looked up at him with a smile.
“Mr. Brock, I am not an ingrate. Without you and M. St. Jacques, I should have been a good deal more lonely, this past month. My father is an old man, and not strong. He has appreciated your courtesy to him, too.”
Brock shifted his stick to his left hand.
“Shall we shake hands on it?” he said jovially. “The month has been rather jolly for us, as Barth would say. The Maple Leaf is a mighty good sort of place; but the atmosphere there is sometimes a little more mature than one cares for. St. Jacques and I haven’t given all the good times. But about the argument: when can you take time to be convinced?”
“By a walk to the Wolfe monument?” she queried mockingly.