Mrs. Brokenshire was not on the veranda, but Mrs. Billing was. She was seated in a low easy-chair, reading a French novel, and had been smoking cigarettes. An inlaid Oriental taboret, on which were a gold cigarette-case and ash-tray, stood beside her on the red-tiled floor.
I had forgotten all about her, as seemingly she had forgotten about me. Her surprise in seeing me appear was not greater than mine at finding her. Instinctively she took up her lorgnette, which was lying in her lap, but put it down without using it.
"So it's you," was her greeting.
"I beg your pardon, madam," I stammered, respectfully. "I didn't know there was anybody here."
I was about to withdraw when she said, commandingly:
"Wait." I waited, while she went on: "You're a little spitfire. Did you know it?"
The voice was harsh, with the Quaker drawl I have noticed in the older generation of Philadelphians; but the tone wasn't hostile. On the contrary, there was something in it that invited me to play up. I played up, demurely, however, saying, with a more emphatic respectfulness:
"No, madam; I didn't."
"Well, you can know it now. Who are you?" She made the quaint little gesture with which I have seen English princesses summon those they wished to talk to. "Come over here where I can get a look at you."
I moved nearer, but she didn't ask me to sit down. In answer to her question I said, simply, "I'm a Canadian."