She made no remark, which he thought unkind; she might have shown some interest in his leg.
“Got wounded in the leg in Barbary.”
The girl looked up. “What’s that?”
Ortho reeled slightly. Was it possible there was anybody in England, in the wide world, who did not know where Barbary was?
“North coast of Africa, of course,” he retorted.
The girl nodded. “Oh, ’es, I believe I have heard father tell of it. Dutch colony, isn’t it?”
“No,” Ortho barked.
The girl went imperturbably on with her knitting. Her shocking ignorance did not appear to worry her in the least; she did not ask Ortho for enlightenment and he did not feel like starting the subject again. The conversation came to a full stop.
The girl was a ninny, Ortho decided; a feather-headed country ninny—yet remarkably good looking for all that. He admired the fine shape of her shoulders under the blue cloak, the thick curls of glossy brown hair that escaped from her hood, and those fresh cheeks; one did not find complexions like that anywhere else but here in the wet southwest. He had an idea that a dimple would appear in one of those cheeks if she laughed, perhaps in both. He felt he must make the ninny dimple.
“Live about here?” he inquired.