“And then?” asked Doggie, swinging to his feet.
“If we get on all right, we can fix up something for to-morrow.”
She was pretty, with a fair, frizzy, insolent prettiness. She might have been any age from fourteen to four-and-twenty.
Doggie smiled, tempted to while away a dark hour. But he said, honestly:
“I’m afraid I should be a dull companion.”
“What’s the matter?” she laughed. “Lost your best girl?”
“Something like it.” He waved a hand across the sea. “Over there.”
“French? Oh!” She drew herself up. “Aren’t English girls good enough for you?”
“When they’re sympathetic, they’re delightful,” said he.
“Oh, you make me tired! Good-bye,” she snapped, and stalked away.