“Promise me one thing,” she said. “Promise me it is nothing disgraceful.”
Martin looked rather injured.
“No; I have not been stealing hens,” he said. “And it is compatible with the highest character.”
Helen looked at him a moment in silence.
“Then I’m not afraid,” she said. “And I will try not to guess at it until you tell me.”
The afternoon was intensely hot, and having arrived here, they settled that a boat under trees was far more to the point than walking under the blaze of the sun, and Helen merely reclined more recumbently on a pile of cushions.
“I think we will go for a walk to-morrow, Martin,” she said, “instead of to-day.”
“That may be. By the way, I met last week that nice girl who was down at Chartries on the Sunday when I got into so many rows. What was her name?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Helen.
“Yes, you have. Oh, I know—Miss Pl—— Oh, yes,—Stella Plympton.”