“We have an Order at home called The Knights of Faith. Shall I send you the Cross some day—in that impossible future?”
“No. Send me your big book, with the picture of the great castle and the broad river flowing by its base.”
She looked at me a moment, flushed but the slightest, and answered: “Yes.” Then, as I remember, we sat silent for a while.
That silence was waste of time, as it proved. For, before it ended, Mrs Thistleton came bounding (really the expression is excusable in view of her unrestrained elation) out of the house, holding a letter in her hand.
“Fräulein, an answer!” she cried.
We both rose, and she came up to us.
“And it sounds most suitable. I do hope you don’t mind London—though really it doesn’t do to be fussy. A Mrs Perkyns, on Maida Hill—nice and high! Only two little children, and she offers—— Oh, well, we can talk about the salary presently.”
That last remark constituted an evident hint to me. I grasped my hat and gave my hand to Mrs Thistleton.
“Good news, isn’t it?” said she. “And Mrs Perkyns says she has such confidence in me—it appears she knew my sister Mary at Cheltenham—that she waives any other references. Isn’t that convenient?”
“Very,” I agreed.