And “I know you didn’t,” was the signification of Paul’s answer.
Cicely and Eve were sitting on the beach. It was a wild shore, clean, untouched by man; the pure waters of the lake rolled up and laved its glistening brown pebbles. Jack ramped up and down against Eve’s knees. “Sing to Jacky—poor, poor Jacky!” he demanded loudly.
“That child is too depressing with his ‘Poor Jacky’!” said Cicely. “Never say that again, Jack; do you hear?”
“Poor, poor Jacky!” said the boy immediately, as though he were irresistibly forced to try the phrase again.
“He heard some one say it to that parrot in Port aux Pins,” explained Eve.
“Oh, I shall never be able to govern him!” Cicely answered.
“Sing to Jacky, Aunty Eve—poor, poor Jacky!”
And in a low tone Eve began to sing:
”‘Row the boat, row the boat up to the strand;
Before our door there is dry land.
Who comes hither all booted and spurred?
Little Jacky Bruce with his hand on his sword.’”
Paul came up. “Now for a walk,” he said to Cicely.