"Not queer at all, Priscilla. My grandfather was Martin, and Martine is the French feminine for it. If I'd been a boy, I would have been named Martin. Unluckily I wasn't, and so Martine was the best that could be done. My elder brother had been named for my father; Lucian, you know, is his name. I never heard any one else call 'Martine' a queer name;" and the Chicago girl turned away petulantly.
Noting again the signs of a coming storm, already too frequent on this trip, Amy hastened to change the subject.
"I don't know why I should have so many letters in my pocket to-day, but since I brought my mail with me, let me read you a little from Brenda's letter; you know her, Priscilla?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Oh, Brenda,—Mrs. Weston," cried Martine, eagerly, all trace of annoyance disappearing from her face and voice. "I've never talked with her, but I've seen her several times; I think she's just fine. She isn't a bit prim and stiff like most Bostonians. Why, she has as much style as a Chicago girl."
"My dear," interposed Amy, "remember that Priscilla and I are from the neighborhood of Boston."
"Oh, yes, but you don't set up for style—there, I don't mean that, of course; I only mean—"
But Martine was getting herself into deep water, and her floundering amused Amy, although she maintained a grave face, as she said:
"Style is not confined to dress; other things are considered just as important by the true critic. However, I'm glad that you admire Brenda, for you'll be the more interested in her letter.
"'Your account of what you have seen in Nova Scotia is perfectly fascinating. But you haven't told me how you like those funny little brown fish that they call Digby chickens, that have a flavor made up of smoked ham and salt cod; you can fancy how surprised I was when I ordered them, for I thought they'd be real chickens. We didn't see any French in Nova Scotia; I can't imagine where you found them. Are they the real thing? or do they speak with a Stratford atte Bow accent?