“Then I am afraid your people must live in a desperately dull neighbourhood?”
“I do not live with my people,” I replied, “in fact, I may tell you, I have no people to live with. My parents died when I was quite small, and my only brother is in India.” I paused abruptly, and felt myself growing red with self-consciousness. Why should I offer all this autobiography to an absolute stranger? What were my affairs to him? As usual my tongue had run away with me, and I felt stricken with confusion and remorse.
After a short silence, he said,
“Possibly you may not remember me, but we passed one another on the marshes some time ago. I was so astonished to see a young lady walking alone in that dreary side of the country, I might have thought you were an apparition but for the dog. Do you live in that part of the world?”
“Yes,” I replied, “within a few miles.”
Mrs. Soady, passing by on the arm of the doctor, patted me on the arm and said,
“Come along and get some soup before it’s all gone. I hope you are enjoying yourself, dearie?”
I nodded an emphatic assent, and as she disappeared in the direction of refreshments my companion looked at me interrogatively.
“My chaperon,” I briefly explained.
“I see,” he assented, nevertheless it was evident that he was greatly puzzled. He surveyed my neat black frock, my well-fitting gloves, my beautiful French fan—also perhaps my smart satin shoes and silk stockings, which were crossed in front of me, for I never made any secret of the fact that I had remarkably pretty feet.