“Apropos of”—asked the consul.
“These people I've just left! I don't think I quite felt with them, and I guess they didn't feel with me.”
“But,” said the consul laughingly, “you know that we Americans speak with a decided dialect of our own, and attach the same occult meaning to it. Yet, upon my word, I think that Lord Beverdale—or shall I say Lord Algernon?—would not only understand that American word 'guess' as you mean it, but would perfectly sympathize with you.”
Miss Desborough's eyes sparkled even through her veil as she glanced at her companion and said, “I GUESS NOT.”
As the “tea” party had not yet returned, it fell to the consul to accompany Miss Desborough and her maid to the station. But here he was startled to find a collection of villagers upon the platform, gathered round two young women in mourning, and an ominous-looking box. He mingled for a moment with the crowd, and then returned to Miss Desborough's side.
“Really,” he said, with a concern that was scarcely assumed, “I ought not to let you go. The omens are most disastrous! You came here to a death; you are going away with a funeral!”
“Then it's high time I took myself off!” said the lady lightly.
“Unless, like the ghostly monk, you came here on a mission, and have fulfilled it.”
“Perhaps I have. Good-by!”