“You wicked girl!” she cried in French. “If madame heard you, she would blame me.”
The imp cuddled her bare knees in a paroxysm of glee.
“You see,” she shrilled. “I told you so.”
“Was all that swearing?” demanded Martin gravely.
“Some of it.”
“Then you shouldn’t do it. If I were your brother, I’d hammer you.”
“Oh, would you, indeed! I’d like to see any boy lay a finger on me. I’d tear his hair out by the roots.”
Naturally, the talk languished for a while, until Martin thought he had perhaps been rude in speaking so brusquely.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said.