“No; by two hours of eloquent pleading on my part. I propose to do it by sheer weight of intellect and statistics. How about to-morrow afternoon at three?”
“Very well,” she assented.
“I’ll cut the office for the afternoon. Shall we choose the Saint Foye Road for the scene of the fray?”
“As you like,” she answered merrily. “But remember that you are to do no monologues. I reserve the right to interrupt, whenever I choose.”
Then they fell silent, as they tramped briskly up and down the terrace. The lights from the Frontenac beside them glowed in the purple dusk and mingled with the glare that lingered in the west. At their feet, the streets of the Lower Town were crowded in the last mad scurry of the dying day, and the river beyond was dotted here and there with the moving lights of an occasional ferry. Then a bugle call rang down from the Citadel, and Nancy roused herself abruptly.
“I suppose we really ought to go to supper,” she said regretfully.
“It isn’t late.”
“No; but my father will be waiting.”
Reluctantly Brock faced about.
“Well, I suppose there are more days to come,” he observed philosophically.