“Who holds the leash; you, André? Last time he get loose, he bite three sheep—three, before we catch him. You hear, monster?”
Fair and Bravo exchanged guilty glances.
“Well, but Diane, he pulled so; truly he did. He went so fast, right over those hedges, and the leash cut through my mittens, and——”
Laure and Diane yielded to outrageous laughter.
“Raoul, you should see them! Right over those sticking hedges they go, Bravo ahead, big like three wolves, and Fair ’way behind at the other end of the leash, so small like the little Red Riding Hood, and so fast like she was flying! Oh, bon Dieu! I thought we die laughing!”
“Very, very funny,” commented Fair bitterly. “Specially for me. How are we going to-day?”
“How if we go across the little meadow to the Gates and home by the Cœur d’Or? Too far, Raoul?”
“We will be back for lunch? À la bonheur—we go. Ah, well hit, Mademoiselle. Straight like arrows, too!”
Fair raced after the red ball, her scarf flying behind her like a banner, wings at her heels, stars in her eyes, tragedy forgotten.
Three more strokes like that would get her to the meadow—oh, wonderful to be alive, to be swift and light and sure, to feel the wind lifting your hair, and the sun warming your heart in a world that was once more safe and kind. Dear world—dear France, dear France, so kind to this small American—she absolved it lavishly from its sins of cold water and bitter coffee; where else in all the world could you find a game of the inspiring simplicity of croquo-golf—a game whose sole equipment was a ball and a mallet—whose sole object was to cover as much space in as few strokes as possible? Where else could you find such comrades to play it with, grave and eager as children, ardent-eyed and laughing-lipped? She smote the ball again, her voice flying with it.