She almost giggled at the way he took it. “I ...” his mouth hung open a minute. But stubborn people were contrary, too, and Robert was no exception. “Well, after all, I expect to keep on with architecture after I’m married.” “Oh yes, but a man ...” Cynthia’s air was still one of polite incredulity. “Here’s Betsey now.” Buttercup hair windblown, cheeks very pink. “But my dear, you’ve been crying again,” thought Cynthia and wondered if it wouldn’t be tactful to withdraw immediately. Betsey herself answered that. “Finished your sketch, Cynthia? I’m so glad you waited. I’ve got a telegram to show you. ... I’m leaving tonight, if I can get across to the mainland.” She was carefully avoiding Robert’s eyes. Betsey had a little pink slip in her hand. Cynthia took it and read aloud, as well as she could, the garbled English of the French wire. “Miss Elizabeth Comstock. Hotel des Poissons ... and so on. Please be in London Monday the eleventh, my office. Stop. Wish to talk over two scenes in new revue. Stop. Charles Cochran.” So. Betsey had made her decision. What would Betsey’s Robert say to that. Cynthia looked up, was about to burst into congratulations when the man forestalled her. “Betsey! I’m so glad! But hadn’t we better hurry? I’ve got to pack and you know how slow I am. We’ll get your Dad to chaperon us as far as London and get married there instead of in Paris. This Cochran thing is too grand a chance to miss.” Cynthia, viewing Betsey’s radiant astonishment, thought almost smugly, “What price Nancy’s little Miss Fix-it?” CHAPTER 5 _The Basque Country_ THE CUCKOO It was Nancy and Mrs. Brewster who had suggested the Basque country. This was partly because Cynthia needed a new type of child’s head for her covers for _Little One’s Magazine_, and partly because they thought it would be a new and amusing adventure. It bore also the extra recommendation of economy. Mrs. Brewster had a friend in a tiny village, well off the beaten track of tourists. He was an artist, he would see that Cynthia found good accommodations, if not in his own house, then in a house nearby. Good, she would write to him, find out for sure if he was still living. For he was, she said, old, old. The Basque country seemed, to Cynthia, a very long way off from Paris, and from the Brewsters in Brittany, and from all the places she had grown to know. The scare and loneliness of Paris had been exorcised by her first success with the portrait of Nono. No place where you can earn a living can be, after you have proved yourself, really strange or unfriendly. But miles and miles away, in the southwestern corner of France it might be different.