Angèle was tugging her rope with greater energy than might be credited to one of her slight frame. The swing was traveling at a great pace. Her fierce gaze disquieted Elsie, to whom this inquisition was irksome.
“Let us stop now,” she said.
“No, no. Tell me when next you saw Martin. I must know.”
“But why?”
“Because he became different in his manner all at once. One day he kissed me——”
“Oh, you are horrid.”
“I swear it. He kissed me last Wednesday afternoon. I did not see him again until Saturday. Then he was cold. He saw you after Wednesday.”
By this time Elsie’s blood was boiling.
“Yes,” she said, and the blue in her eyes held a hard glint. “He saw me on Wednesday night. We happened to be standing at our gate. Frank Beckett-Smythe passed on his bicycle. He was chased by a groom—sent home to be horsewhipped—because he was coming to meet you.”
“O là là!” shrilled Angèle. “That was nine o’clock. Does papa know?”