“How stupid of me not to guess. I can say what I like before Martin Bolland. He is a nice boy—Martin.”
“Yes,” agreed Elsie shortly.
She blushed. They were in the swing now, and swooping to and fro in long rushes. Angèle’s black eyes were searching Elsie’s blue ones. She tittered unpleasantly.
“What makes you so red when I speak of Martin?” she demanded.
“I am not red—that is, I have no reason to be.”
“You know him well?”
“Do you mean Martin?”
“Sapristi!—I beg your pardon—who else?”
“I—I have only met him twice, to speak to. I have known him by sight for years.”
“Twice? The first time when he killed that thing—the cat. When was the second?”