"Honour bright, I can't remember anything unkind I ever did to her."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I was afraid, when you said you'd forgotten--but maybe
her name wasn't Angel, then?"

"That was it, I'm sure," replied Hugh, soothingly. "Maybe you named her
Angel, yourself?"

"I don't know," said Rosemary. "She seems to have been it, always, ever
since I can remember. And she does look just like one, you know, she's
so beautiful."

"I expect you remember a lot more about angels than I do, because it
isn't so long since you came from where they live. But here we are in
the woods at Cap Martin. Have you ever been here before?"

"Angel and I had a picnic here once, all by ourselves; and there were
lots of sheep under the olive trees, and a funny old shepherd who made
music to them. Oh, I do love picnics, don't you? Angel said, if she were
rich, she'd take me on the loveliest kind of a picnic for Christmas;
but, you see, it would cost too much money to do it, for we've hardly
got any, especially since the Comtesse doesn't pay us back."

"What kind of picnic would it have been?" asked Hugh, driving along the
beautiful shore road, where the wind-blown pines lean forward like
transformed wood nymphs, caught in a spell just as they spread out their
arms to spring into the sea.

"Angel has told me lots of history-stories about the strange
rock-villages in the mountains. There's one called Éze, on top of a hill