"Mais, mademoiselle—"
She held up an imperious hand. "That is one of the things you are not allowed to say. You are never to talk French to me. It is holiday-time when I am with you, and I never talk French in the holidays, except to Mademoiselle, who won't listen to English. And won't you call me Chris? Everyone else does."
"Chris?" he repeated after her very softly, his eyes upon her, tenderly indulgent. "Ah! let it be Christine. I may call you that?"
"Of course," she returned practically. "My actual name is Christina, but that's a detail. You can call me Christine if you like it best."
"I have another name for you," he said, with slight hesitation.
"Have you?" she asked with interest. "What is it? Do tell me!"
But he still hesitated. "It will not vex you? No?"
She flashed him her merriest smile. "Of course not. Why should it?"
He smiled back upon her, but there was the light of something deeper than mirth in his eyes. "I call you my bird of Paradise," he said.
"How pretty!" said Chris. "Quite poetical, preux chevalier! You may go on calling me that if you like, but it's too long for general use. And what shall I call you? Tell me your Christian name."