“What good that? Your life is more to you than Quebec to England.”
“No, no,” said I quickly; “I would give my life a hundred times to see your flag hauled down!”
“A freakish ambition,” he replied; “mere infatuation!”
“You do not understand it, Monsieur Doltaire,” I remarked ironically.
“I love not endless puzzles. There is no sport in following a maze that leads to nowhere save the grave.” He yawned. “This air is heavy,” he added; “you must find it trying.”
“Never as trying as at this moment,” I retorted.
“Come, am I so malarious?”
“You are a trickster,” I answered coldly.
“Ah, you mean that night at Bigot’s?” He smiled. “No, no, you were to blame—so green. You might have known we were for having you between the stones.”
“But it did not come out as you wished?” hinted I.