“A mystery!” exclaimed M. Tod, who was just about to blow into a glove.
Christina picked the neglected penny from the counter and dropped it into the till. “It’s a case o’ cherchez la femme,” she said softly, with quite a passable accent.
“What’s that?” murmured M. Tod.
“French,” sighed Christina, making a jotting of her last sales, and taking a long time to do it.
M. Tod stared for a moment or two, shook her head, drew a long breath, and with the same inflated her glove.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Macgregor was half-way home ere he comprehended the cause of the dull ache about his temples. He eased his hat and obtained relief. But there was no lid to lift from his mind which seemed to be overcrowded with a jumble of ideas—old ideas turned topsy-turvy, some damaged, some twisted, and new ideas struggling, as it were, for existence. Moral earthquakes are not infrequent during our ’teens and twenties; by their convulsions they provide construction material for character; but the material is mixed, and we are left to choose whether we shall erect sturdy towers or jerry-buildings.
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