And so they did. George followed them slowly, with Eva hanging on his arm. She was very fond and proud of her soldier brother.
They entered the shrubbery and saw seated upon a bench three figures dressed in black, who rose to their feet at their hostess's approach.
"Goodness gracious! how uncanny they look!" whispered Mrs. Mulholland, and added, with a smile of half-incredulous pleasure, "I believe they really are worse than mine."
The three black figures stood silent and motionless, and Mrs. Mulholland found herself gazing as if fascinated into the depths of three pairs of startled, almost hallucinated eyes, fixed gloomily upon her.
Mrs. Whitaker addressed them in English, speaking very loud with an idea of making them understand her better. They seemed not to hear, they certainly made no attempt to answer her amiable platitudes.
Mrs. Mulholland, moved to something like pity by their stricken appearance, put out her hand saying, "How do you do?" and two of them laid their limp fingers in hers—the third, whom she now noticed was a child although she wore a long black skirt, neither stirred nor removed her stony gaze from her face. There was an embarrassing pause. Then Mrs. Mulholland asked with a bright society smile—
"How do you like England?"
No answer.
"George, dear, ask them in French," said his mother.
George stepped forward blushing through his tan. "Um ... er ..." he cleared his throat. "S'il vous plaît Londres?" he inquired timidly.