‘Bon jour, Philippine,’ I said.
‘Basil,’ she replied, ‘where am I?’
‘Under my roof—your brother’s roof,’ I said.
‘Brother! oh, stow that bosh!’ she said, turning languidly away.
There could not be a doubt of it, Philippa was herself again!
I rose pensively, and wandered out towards the stables.
Covered with white snow over a white macintosh, I met by the coach-house door William, the Sphynx.
The White Groom!
Twiddling a small object, a door-key of peculiar make, in his hand, he grinned stolidly at me.
‘She’s a rum un, squire, your sister, she be,’ chuckled the Sphynx.