“Yes. I did not expect to stay so long, but circumstances—”
“Over which you had no control,” finished the “Gamin,” calmly.
“What did you say?” he asked, turning to look at her with a sudden suspicion that she was laughing at him.
“I said, circumstances over which you had no control—that’s the accepted formula, isn’t it?” she retorted.
Basil rode in silence for a full two minutes, then began again, stiffly: “As I am leaving Normandy to-morrow—”
“When you discover a subject of conversation you push it to its furthest possibilities,” Marguerite interrupted. “Well, it is gradually dawning on me that you really intend to leave Normandy, Salvières, and the be-neighboring regions to-morrow, although wiseacres pretend that to-morrow does not exist.”
This unwonted flippancy caught Basil on the raw, and his teeth closed so grimly that the muscles became vaguely apparent beneath the tan of his lean cheeks; a signal his tyro-tormentor perceived clearly, and was exasperated enough to appreciate profoundly.
“If you will deign to grant me your attention for a few short moments, I will explain why I make a point of bringing this inconsiderable event to your notice.”
“Imbecile!” flashed through Marguerite’s mind amid a flood of remorse for such a desecration. “I grant you my attention,” she, however, persevered, and Basil viciously bit one end of his mustache, which he had drawn into his mouth.
“I will be gone for a wholly indeterminate period of time,” he pursued. “Years, probably.”