“You speak in the singular.”
“Which,” he declared instantly, “is not at all singular, the situation considered. Had I my choice, I’d not seek a pupil beyond this little glade.”
“Oh, if you were to pick one of my Sunday-school class, I’m afraid you would not find the task particularly agreeable. Teaching elocution to Tommy or Jimmy or any of the others would be thankless work.”
He smiled. “I’d not care to seek so far, yet I know it is presumptuous for me to fancy that I could teach you.”
She flashed him a smile that went to his head like wine and made him long to imprison the dainty hand that was still toying with the bit of loose bark. There was a brief silence, broken only by the echoing cries of the romping children.
“Tommy, Tommy!” she cried suddenly, “play ‘Marching Through Georgia.’ Just listen, Mr. Locke; Tommy plays very well for a little fellow. Don’t you think so?”
“To tell the truth, I don’t, but, if you say so, I’ll swear he plays divinely.”
“You have a habit of speaking the truth always?”
“It is my intention to follow the practice when possible.”
“Do you think a lie is ever excusable?”