Marjolaine was eyeing him with grave suspicion. "You are not drinking. It is Maman’s claret!" Jack gazed stonily at his half-empty tumbler. "Does she—does she take this for her health?" "Yes. As medicine." "As medicine—I understand." "You said you were thirsty." "It’s a wonderful wine. Quenches your thirst at once." He put the glass away from him. "Take some cake?" said Marjolaine. She had forgotten to bring a knife, so Jack, sailorlike, broke the cake in two pieces. "I say!" he cried, "you must have some too, or I shall feel greedy!" And there they sat, like two children, contentedly munching and swinging their legs. "I shall call you Marjory," said Jack, between two bites. "They all do," answered Marjolaine, with her mouth full. "Do they?" asked Jack ferociously. "Who?" Marjolaine waved her cake at the Walk in general. "Oh—the neighbours." "Impudence!" growled Jack. But he recovered quickly. "I say! Isn’t this delightful?" "It’s very strange. Do you know, you are the first young man I ’ve ever spoken to, in all my life?" Jack’s eyes expressed his joy. "No!—that’s first-rate!" Marjolaine stared at him with astonishment. "Why?" "Oh, I don’t know. I hate young men." "Then you ought to live here. Here—everybody is—oh!—so old!" "Poor little girl," said Jack, with deep sympathy. "Why?" "Must be so lonely." "Oh, no! One cannot feel lonely where there ’s a river. Twice every day it brings down news from the meadows, where the flowers are, and the cattle, standing knee-deep in its margin, and the _demoiselles_—how do you say?—dragonflies—and the willows, dipping their branches in it. And then, when the tide turns, it comes back from the great town, and sings of the ships and the crowded bridges, and the King and Queen taking their pleasure in great, golden barges. And the sea-gulls come with it, and it sings of the sea!" Her eyes were flashing; her face was transfigured; Jack was leaning forward eagerly, and if there had been any loophole of escape for him before, there was certainly none now. "Do you love the sea?" "What do I know of it?" said she, coming to earth again. "I have only crossed from Dunkerque to Tilbury. But that was lovely! It was very rough; and I stood against the mast, and my hair blew all about, and I shouted for joy!—Oh! I should love to be a pirate!" "Fine!" cried Jack, as excited as she. "Tell you what! We ’ll charter a ship, and sweep the seas, and bang the enemy!" "’We’?—Why, you’re going away in a minute, and I shall never see you again." There was a pause. Marjolaine’s words had brought them both to a sense of reality. Finally Jack spoke, and his voice had a new ring of earnestness. "Marjory—do you mean that?" She turned wonderingly innocent eyes on him. "Why should you come again?"