Cricket Creek Bog comme un boomerang

He clicks his tongue. Ahh, am I wrong? he asks, chuckling. Donatien swings his head to and fro, slowly, a wide-eyed pantomime of someone looking for friends that never appear. I see nobody else. Except for you. Is it your sw— bog, miss?

The pale man dips his muzzle. If so, my humblest apologies, he chirps with overly-saccharine contrition. 

Straight to introductions, then; he supposes that is the way into a conversation. Donatien du Pont, cherie, the rake replies. And you, Lady of the Leapfrogs? he adds, as a plump one of these hurls itself into a nearby puddle, splashing around.

Oh, this is too much fun. She will taste all the more sweet for this diversion.