“I do, though,” protested the injured Roy. “That was why I wouldn’t go on playing chess. And then for you to say that I don’t look. But I can’t see that Den is changed—not a scrap. What do you mean? He’s the best old fellow that ever lived—just as he always was, you know.”
“Old!” repeated Lucille, with a lifting of her eyebrows.
“O, that’s only—that means nothing. At least, it means that I like him better than anybody else—except Molly. No, he isn’t old really, of course—he was twenty-five his last birthday.” Roy laughed to himself.
“Something that you find amusing, Roy!”
“It’s only the letter. Do you know, that’s from the girl he is going to marry some day. It’s from Polly.”
“Oui.” Lucille had already conjectured as much. “Mademoiselle Pol-ly. C’est un peu drôle, ce nom-là.”
“But ’tis not Mademoiselle Po-lee. ’Tis just Polly. You do say names so drolly—so French! Den says I’m not to cure you of talking as you do, because ’tis pretty. But her name really and truly isn’t Polly. She is Mary Keene—only no one ever calls her Mary.”
“Mademoiselle Marie Keene—ah, oui. And is this Mademoiselle Keene pretty—gentille?”
“I should just think she was. The prettiest girl that ever was,” declared Roy. “Though I like Molly best, you know, and she’s not pretty. But Polly’s nice, too. May I go back now? Den has had lots of time.”
“I would wait—ten minutes—why not? You have not yet unpacked for monsieur.”