"Schist?" she inquired in Breton.
"With a dash of red wine, then," I replied.
She brought the delicious Quimperle cider, and I poured a little Bordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing black eyes.
"What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?" I asked. "Has Jean Marie been here?"
"We are to be married, Monsieur Darrel," she laughed.
"Ah! Since when has Jean Marie Tregunc lost his head?"
"His head? Oh, Monsieur Darrel—his heart, you mean!"
"So I do," said I. "Jean Marie is a practical fellow."
"It is all due to your kindness—" began the girl, but I raised my hand and held up the glass.
"It's due to himself. To your happiness, Marianne"; and I took a hearty draught of the schist. "Now," said I, "tell me where I can find Le Bihan and Max Fortin."