She blushed again, vividly. Under her wide straw hat her delicate, sensitive face and dark blue eyes were beautiful enough to inspire eulogy in any young man.
"Pardon," he said, confused by her reprimand and her loveliness. "I shall hereafter only think you are pretty, mademoiselle—mais je ne le dirais ploo."
"That would be perhaps more—comme il faut, monsieur."
"Ploo!" he repeated with emphasis. "Ploo jamais! Je vous jure——"
"Merci; it is not perhaps necessary to swear quite so solemnly, monsieur."
She raised her eyes from the pan, moving her small, sun-tanned hand through the heaps of green peas, filling her palm with them and idly letting them run through her slim fingers.
"L'amour," he said with an effort—"how funny it is—isn't it, mademoiselle?"
"I know nothing about it," she replied with decision, and rose with her pan of peas.
"Are you going, mademoiselle?"
"Yes."