"My first is in apple, but not in pie,
My second is in do, but not in die,
My third is in veal, but not in ham,
My fourth is in sheep, but not in lamb,
My fifth is in morning, but not in night,
My sixth is in darkness, but not in light,
My whole is just a word or two,
Which is known to me as well as to you."
Le Breton knew more English than he pretended, but riddles did not often come his way.
"Say it again slowly," he requested.
Pansy repeated her composition.
He stored it up in his mind, deciding to go into the matter later on when there was no lovely little face, dimpled with mischief, looking at him teasingly from beneath a halo of golden curls.
Soon after this Pansy glanced at her wrist watch.
"I mustn't stay any longer," she said, getting to her feet.
"It's not nine o'clock yet," he remarked. "I didn't hurry away from you so quickly yesterday."
This Pansy knew quite well.
He had sat on, and on, with her in the summer-house with the red roses, and she had been pleased to let him stay. In fact, it had been afternoon before they had come down to earth again.