“Yes, but my father is a farmer. She has a governess, and goes to tea at the Hall. I’ve met her driving from the Castle. She’s above me, you see.”
Angèle laughed maliciously.
“O là là! c’est pour rire! I’m sorry. She is—what do you say—a little snob.”
“No, no,” protested Martin. “I think she would be very nice, if I knew her. You’ll like her fine when you play with her.”
“Me! Play with her, so prim, so pious. I prefer Jim Bates. He winked at me yesterday.”
“Did he? Next time I see him I’ll make it hard for him to wink.”
Angèle clapped her hands and pirouetted.
“What,” she cried, “you will fight him, and for me! What joy! It’s just like a story book. You must kick him, so, and he will fall down, and I will kiss you.”
“I will not kick him,” said the indignant Martin. “Boys don’t kick in England. And I don’t want to be kissed.”
“Don’t boys kiss in England?”