and sunshine on a field of growing grain—erratic, unexpected, but always strangely fascinating. "You're not a numskull," contradicted Diana. a—cher ami," she finished, triumphantly. I was hunting for the keyhole once more. "Am I so bad as that?" I murmured, assuming a most de jected air. f " So bad as what ?" asked Diana. "So bad that it cannot be expressed in English," I replied. And then I raised my hands in a gesture of supplication. " Ora pro me," I said, sadly. Thank heaven I could recall that much Latin. Diana looked bewildered. I knew she was trying to locate my exclamation through the aid of her French vocabulary, and I laughed at her efforts. At that her•face brightened. "Oh, it doesn't mean anything at all," she smiled. "There is no such thing in French." "No," I admitted, still laughing, "I guess there isn't." "It wasn't nice of you to do that," she said, suddenly sobering. "I suppose that I ought to be spanked and sent to bed," I acknowledged, meekly. Again that rippling laugh of hers, like a mountain brook babbling over its pebbles or the distant tinkling of bells on a drowsy evening, or— "Actually, you said something funny," she declared. can be funny sometimes, can't you, King?" "Yes, even a ' cher ami,' if necessary," I retorted. "Does it worry you so dreadfully ?" she asked. "Well," I answered, "I should like to know what you think of me—in French." "It is much beam' than you think," she said. is nice. "I am duly thankful," I replied. "I think I shall learn to speak French, if one can say nice things in French and—" " Not be understood," finished Diana. " You're a— " You " In fact, it
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