"Let us forget the Loire," replied my father. "Shall I be quite frank with you, Mademoiselle?"
"It would be amusing," she admitted, leaning from the saddle towards him, "if it were only possible," she added.
"Then listen, Mademoiselle," he continued, "and I shall be very frank indeed. It must be the sea air which makes me so. I seldom talk unless I feel that my days for talking are nearly over, and at present they seem to stretch before me most interminably. In a moment we shall see the boat, and in a moment the Sea Tern. I fear I have been very foolish."
"Father," I inquired, "will you answer me a question?"
"Perhaps," said my father.
"What has my uncle to do with the paper?"
"My son," said my father, "may I ask you a question?"
"Perhaps," I replied.
"How much money did your mother leave you at her death?"
"She had none to leave," I replied quickly.