“You think I’m a naughty boy?”
“Oh well, I didn’t mean that, my young Sir Galahad! Now come away with me and I’ll show you the wonderful ferns and the orchid house. I must have a good, comfortable, private talk.”
As soon as the pair found themselves alone in the fernery she turned to face him, and said, with unusual animation:
“Now I want to tell you about Sophy—I’m miserable when I think of her.”
“Miserable—but why?”
“When you’ve been to call at ‘Heidelberg’—I may tell you it’s miles and miles away—you’ll see for yourself; it’s my opinion that she has been decoyed out to this country under false pretences.”
“Oh, but surely Mrs. Krauss is her own aunt?”
“She is, and more or less an invalid, utterly broken down by years of Burma. Mrs. Krauss is apathetic, dull, and boneless, and looks as if you could fold her up and put her in a bag. Herr Krauss is a fat, loud-talking, trampling German—not a gentleman, but a man with a keen eye to business. His wife’s half-caste maid who waited upon her, managed the house, and was with her for years, has married and gone to Australia, and poor Sophy has been imported to replace the treasure; that is, to nurse her aunt, run the house, and play the old bounder’s accompaniments, for he, like Nero, is musical. He is also a friend of that odious Bernhard’s. Bernhard is a well-born Prussian—I’ll say that for him—the other is of the waiter class, who has made his money in China and Burma.”
“Oh, come, I say, this is rather bad! What’s to be done?”
“I only wish I knew. The Krauss abode is large and gloomy—it looks like a house in a bad temper, and stands in the heart of the German community; the servants seemed a low-class lot, the rooms were dark and untidy, and smelt of mould and medicine, but Sophy was just as bright and cheerful as usual; apparently delighted with everything—loyal, of course, to her own blood. Now, I know that you and Sophy are friends, and I want you to keep an eye upon her,” concluded this injudicious matron.