"Miss Challoner!" she reproved him.
"Hermia, then. Do you realize, you very mischievous young person, that this is precisely the fourth time that you and I have met?"
"I shall call you John, just the same," she announced.
"By all means, or Philidor—anything else would be rather silly—under the circumstances. You aren't regretting this madness? There's still time to reconsider."
"No," promptly. "I've burned my bridges. En avant, Monsieur."
The next rise of land brought into view the houses of a small town huddled among the trees along the river bank. They were still on the main line of communication between Paris and the Coast, and here perhaps they would find a telephone or telegraph office. Hermia made a wry face.
"I didn't know there were any telephones in Vagabondia."
"There aren't. We haven't reached there yet." He glanced at her modish French suit and hat and down at the English leather traveling case she was carrying.
"If you think you look like a vagabond in that get up you're much mistaken," he laughed.
"I don't. I know I don't," looking ruefully at her clothes. "But I will before long. You'll see."