“It seems to me,” she presently answered, “that I remind you of nothing but the ladies and maids of these countries where you have traveled.”
“Well, you don’t remind me of the lads, that I admit,” said Adam.
Garde made up her mind to profit by the occasion. She piled her little courage up to the top-most mark.
“And who was the little maid of Jamaica?” she asked.
“Oh, she was as sweet a little thing as ever prattled Spanish,” Rust replied, with a reminiscent look in his eyes. “You would have liked her, I know.”
Garde entertained and reserved her own opinion on that point. “Well—did she like you?” she asked, indifferently.
“Oh yes, she said she did, and I am sure you could depend upon her to tell the truth. She used to like to sit on my knee, dear little thing!”
Garde gasped. It was fortunate that Adam’s mind was occupied with memories. His perfidy was coming forth finely. She knew not whether she wished to cry or to stamp her foot in anger. She controlled her impulses heroically.
“About how old was she?” was her next question.
“Three, I should say,” said Adam. “She was a pitiful little thing, more than pretty. In a way she made me think of Garde, so I couldn’t help but like her.”