Poor Elsie crimsoned to the nape of her neck. She wanted to cry—to slap this tormentor’s face. Yet she returned Angèle’s fiery scrutiny with interest.
“Yes,” she said with real heat. “I told him Martin came to our house, but I said nothing about Frank—and you. It was too disgraceful.”
She jerked viciously at her rope to counteract the pull given by Angèle. The opposing strains snapped the crossbar. Both ropes fell, and with them the two pieces of wood. One piece tapped Angèle somewhat sharply on the shoulder, and she uttered an involuntary cry.
The vicar and Mrs. Saumarez hurried up, but the swing stopped gradually. Obviously, neither of the girls was injured.
“You must have been using great force to break that stout bar,” said Mr. Herbert, helping Angèle to alight.
“Yes. Elsie and I were pulling against each other. But we had a lovely time, didn’t we, Elsie?”
“I think I enjoyed it even more than you,” retorted Elsie. The elders attributed her excited demeanor to the accident.
“If the ropes were tied to the crossbeam, they would be safer, and almost as effective,” said the vicar. “Ah! Here comes Martin. Perhaps he can put matters right.”
“I don’t want to swing any more,” vowed Elsie.
“But Martin will,” laughed Angèle. “We can swop partners. That will be jolly, won’t it?”