“That was our last stopping-place. When I leave the Blankshire, where I have been so much at home, I shall feel rather astray.”
“So you would like a home on the rolling deep?” suggested her companion.
“No, indeed; shall I ever forget that day we had off Crete? But I have never been long away from mother; I am going to a new country, a new life, and almost new relations—it all seems so strange and vague.”
“But your aunt cannot be a stranger,” suggested Shafto. “You know her, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes; but I have not seen her for eight years. The last time she was over, she stayed with us for a few weeks. I remember her as handsome and beautifully dressed, with wonderful toilet arrangements in ivory and silver, and bottles of heavy Indian scent. She was very kind and had such soft caressing manners, and gave us lots of chocolate and nice presents. I recollect a beautiful emerald ring she wore—but I cannot recall the colour of her eyes.”
“Oh, well, that oversight will soon be repaired!”
“Aunt Flora was fond of gaiety and theatres; we lived in Chelsea, and as our small house could hardly hold her big boxes and we had no telephone, she went to the Carlton, where she was more in the middle of things, and could entertain her friends from India and Burma—but she came to see us two or three times a week.”
“And where was her lord and master?”
“In Germany; I have never seen him.”
“How did your aunt come across him?”