"And are 'they' all the same to you?"
"Of course," said Olwen in a resigned voice, "you mean Captain Ross."
"Certainly I didn't mean your little Major Leefe, who talks as if it hurt him, not your young sailor-boy, who loves to laugh."
"Well, I see Captain Ross every day, and I expect he thinks that's far too much."
Golden's reply was a soft laugh. "Oh, you British, you are the funniest things! Either you want to grab a thing before you take another breath, or else you wait staring at it until you can't see it!—--Why, Olwen, that man's crazy about you."
"Not he!" returned Olwen, decidedly, and with another sort of laugh—a slightly bitter one.
For she had just remembered that this was the second time some one had thought this thing. She heard again the mercilessly shrewd voice of that French manageress at Les Pins.
"Monsieur le Capitaine, he with the one arm, who admires Mademoiselle."
She, Olwen, had actually been silly enough to believe it, then. She didn't believe it now; how could she? Did she have any reason? Those Fridays were the only time she saw him to speak to, and even those, as he'd practically pointed out to her, were the purest accident.
The rest of the time—she laughed again.