Piotr, greatly offended, drew up his sturdy little body. “I don’t know,” he replied, in his peculiarly precocious fashion, “why everybody tells me I’m a liar. Garrassime is just like you; he said that I wasn’t saying the truth.”
“Garrassime is a man of great sense, then, that’s all,” the abbé said, with some heat, stealing a glance in the direction of Marguerite, who, bent forward, her lips a little unclosed, her blue eyes wide, was as motionless as the broad balustrade on which she sat.
“If your father were coming here, assuredly Garrassime would know about it. So you see that you are dreaming, or have been misinformed, my dear child,” the abbé resumed.
“Mis-in-formed!” sulked Piotr. “What does that mean? Is it that I’ve been lied to?”
“Dear me,” said the exasperated Abbé de Kerdren, “can’t you remember, Piotr, that the words ‘lie’ and ‘liar’ are not parliamentary—no, I don’t express myself right—not polite or well-bred, d’you understand?”
“Oh, I don’t mind that, but if one’s got to be polite now, even during play-hours, it’s beastly!”
“Piotr!” threatened the abbé.
But Piotr was not listening, and, following his own idea, burst out, “I know Papa is coming and so does Aunt Tatiana; so there!”
“Is it Aunt Tatiana who has told you so?”
“No, Uncle Pierre, she did not tell it to me; she was talking to Uncle Jean after he kissed her.”