"No," I murmur. Suddenly, however, my humiliated self-consciousness rebels, and, setting my arms akimbo, I ask, "And were you ever in Paris?" The Frenchwoman behind us laughs.
Down from above us falls a hard projectile upon Heda's fair head,--a large purple bean,--and then another. She looks up angrily. Harry is leaning out of a window above us, his elbows resting on the sill, and his head between his hands. "What an ill-bred boor you are!" she calls out.
"And do you know what you are?" he shouts; "an affected braggart--that's what you are."
With which he jumps from the window into the branches of a tree just before it, and comes scrambling down to the ground. "What is your name?" he asks me.
"Zdena."
"I am happy to make your acquaintance, Zdena. Heda bores you, doesn't she?"
I shake my head and laugh; feeling a protector near me, I am quite merry once more. "Would you like to take a little ride, Zdena?" he asks.
"Upon a pig?" I inquire, in some trepidation.
He laughs, somewhat embarrassed, and shrugs his shoulders. "You do not really suppose that I am in the habit of riding pigs!" he exclaims; "I only do it when my tutor forbids it--it is too ridiculous to suppose such a thing!" and he hurries away.
I look after him remorsefully. I am vexed to have been so foolish, and I am sorry to have frightened him away.