“Yes.”
He ceased beating the bushes and looked at her fixedly, the question was so unexpected. Yet Angèle had asked him the selfsame question concerning Elsie Herbert. One girl resembled another as two peas in a pod.
“Do you like her?”
“I think I do, sometimes.”
“Do you think she is pretty?”
“Yes, often.”
“What do you mean by ‘sometimes,’ ‘often?’ How can a girl be pretty—‘often’?”
“Well, you see, I think she is nice in many ways, and that if—she knew you—and copied your manner—your voice, and style, and behavior—she would improve very greatly.”
Martin had recovered his wits. Elsie tittered and blushed slightly.
“Really!” she said, and recommenced the kicking process with ardor.