“What are you talking about, papa? I don’t believe you’re quite awake yet.”
“She must have had a grandfather. Everybody has a grandfather.”
“Well, of course. But—”
“Then he must be either dead or alive.”
“How tiresome you are! We must be going. The others are waiting for us lower down the hill.”
Monsieur Roget struggled to his feet, and shook the little dead fronds of fern from his clothes, and his wife dusted him down behind.
“We shall be going back past the inn,” she said.
“The inn! Why can’t we go the other way? The way we came?”
“Don’t be so absurd. What does it matter? The others are awaiting us.”