“Yes, an English fellow that has been stopping here for a few days. Where is he? I haven’t seen him for a week,” he added, turning to the Lady.
“He is ill; I expect him back in a day or two. Please excuse me. I hear the telephone.” And she hurried out of the room.
Nancy looked after her regretfully. Even during the three days she had been there, she had gained a sound liking for the blithe little woman, always busy, never hurried, and invariably at leisure for a friendly word with any or all of her great family of boarders. Brock’s glance followed that of Nancy.
“Yes, she is a remarkable woman,” he assented gravely to her unspoken words. For an instant, his keen gray eyes met Nancy’s eyes, steadily, yet with no look of boldness. Then his tone changed. “But about Johnny Bull. He is a revelation to the house, the son of a stiff-backed generation. He was here for a week, and left us all trying to get his accent and to imitate his manners.”
“And what became of him?”
“Gone. The Lady says he is ill. I hope we didn’t make him so. Have you been here long, Miss Howard?”
“Three days.”
“And have you seen anything at all of Quebec?”
“Yes, a little. I have been to the Cathedral, and the Basilica, and the Gray Nunnery, and the Ursuline Convent, and—”
“You appear to be of an ecclesiastical turn of mind,” Brock suggested, laughing.