“Then it’s indigestion, from eating old goat.”
“Edie!”
“It is, dear,” said the merry, fair-haired girl, swinging her straw hat by one string over the balcony. “I’m sure they save up the goats when they’re too old to give any milk, to cook up for the visitors, and then they call it chamois. I wish Aunt Jerrold had been here to have some of that dish last night. I say, she wants to know when we are coming back to Bourne Square.”
“I don’t know,” said Myra thoughtfully. “I am in no hurry. It is very beautiful here.”
“Hum, yes. You like it—as well as Saint Malo, the boating, and that quaint Breton woman where we lodged?”
“Of course. The flowers and the pine woods—it is one glorious garden. Papa liked the yachting, though.”
“Yes; but after three months out here I shall be glad to see smoky old London again.”
“Yes,” said Myra meaningly, “I suppose so.”
Edie glanced at her sidewise in a quick, sharp way, but was silent for a few minutes. When her cousin spoke:
“Let’s go and coax papa out for a good ramble till dinner—I mean supper—time.”