The party was soon outside the more closely built streets, on a broad road that for the time offered little outlook. Mr. Knight, with the evident intention of doing his full duty by Balfour's friend kept up a monologue whose steady current afforded great amusement to Martine.
"Talk of babbling brooks," she murmured; "did you ever hear anything like it?" and she gave Priscilla's arm a gentle pinch that made her squirm.
"He's taking any amount of trouble to make history clear," rejoined Priscilla, who, as usual, was not ready to accept Martine's point of view.
"Yes, but he's beginning at the wrong end. We know all about Champlain, and De Monts, and the Scotch Fort, and all that; what we want is how the Acadians were treated at Grand Pré, and where—"
"Oh, he'll get there."
"Yes, if we give him time. But I am going to make him change the subject." So, leaning back, Martine turned to Mr. Knight, "You are a great friend of Mr. Airton's, I believe."
"Oh, yes, indeed; that is—but of course you know—well, Mr. Airton is—ah, not exactly a contemporary of mine—that is, he is—I am older."
Mr. Knight, as he spoke, grew rather red in the face. There seemed to be no excuse for his embarrassment, except the one that Mrs. Redmond gave later, that he regarded Martine's question and her way of putting it much in the light of a question from an enfant terrible.
Realizing, however, that he had not said just the right thing, the poor young man next began to stammer in his effort to explain himself.
"Balfour certainly is a great friend of mine, and one of the finest boys I know."