Max took command. She spoke, curtly, in French.
“Monsieur Petard, we have read your letters to our daughter, and heard her story of her correspondence with you. She is, as you see, a mere child. I appeal to you as a soldier and a gentleman, to return her letters to us, and to close this painful incident.”
He turned to the girl.
“I ask you one question. Do you love me?”
“Why, no,” she said, simply, “I told you I didn’t.”
“I did not believe. Your friend, the Mademoiselle Pollock, she say you are infatuate wiz me; she send ze picture; she tell me you are crazy about me.”
“Agnes Pollock? Why, the dirty little liar!” cried Isabelle.
“My daughter is a schoolgirl, she knows nothing about love. Will you or will you not, give us those letters?”
He considered a second.