“Why—uh—”
“What made you think I was French? Tell me; I’m interested.”
“Oh, I guess I was just—well, it was almost make-b’lieve—how you had a castle in France—just a kind of a fool game.”
“Oh, don’t be ashamed of imagination,” she demanded, stamping her foot, while her voice fluttered, low and beautifully controlled, through half a dozen notes. “Tell me the rest of your story about me.”
She was sitting on the rail above him now. As he spoke she cupped her chin with the palm of her delicate hand and observed him curiously.
“Oh, nothing much more. You were a countess—”
“Please! Not just ‘were.’ Please, sir, mayn’t I be a countess now?”
“Oh yes, of course you are!” he cried, delight submerging timidity. “And your father was sick with somepun’ mysterious, and all the docs shook their heads and said ‘Gee! we dunno what it is,’ and so you sneaked down to the treasure-chamber—you see, your dad—your father, I should say—he was a cranky old Frenchman—just in the story, you know. He didn’t think you could do anything yourself about him being mysteriously sick. So one night you—”
“Oh, was it dark? Very very dark? And silent? And my footsteps rang on the hollow flagstones? And I swiped the gold and went forth into the night?”
“Yes, yes! That’s it.”