She looked at him frowningly. There was no faintest tinge of dignity
about her, only the careless effrontery of childhood and the grace that
is childhood's heritage.

"I am going to swim as far as the skyline some day," she announced
lightly, "and look over the edge of the world."

"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"

She held up an imperious hand. "That is one of the things you are not
allowed to say. You are never to talk French to me. It is holiday-time
when I am with you, and I never talk French in the holidays, except to
Mademoiselle, who won't listen to English. And won't you call me Chris?
Everyone else does."

"Chris?" he repeated after her very softly, his eyes upon her, tenderly
indulgent. "Ah! let it be Christine. I may call you that?"

"Of course," she returned practically. "My actual name is Christina, but
that's a detail. You can call me Christine if you like it best."

"I have another name for you," he said, with slight hesitation.

"Have you?" she asked with interest. "What is it? Do tell me!"

But he still hesitated. "It will not vex you? No?"

She flashed him her merriest smile. "Of course not. Why should it?"