“London is the capital of England,” she remarked, “Paris is the capital of France, Berlin is the capital of Germany.” She fired off this sample of her knowledge of geography with grave pride.
He looked at her and smiled.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve been to all of them.”
“That must be very jolly,” she said. “And where do you live in England? At that place on that little bit of cardboard you showed me? What was it—Oakfield?”
“Yes,” he said; “that’s my mother’s place.”
“Your mother’s? Haven’t you got a father?”
“My father is dead,” he replied. “Does your father live here?”
“No,” she said, gravely. “I don’t know where he lives; I don’t know whether he’s alive at all. My guardian lives here sometimes. His name is Varley Howard. You may have heard of him,” with a touch of pride. “I am called after him—Esmeralda Howard.”
“Is he one of the Howards of Suffolk?” asked Norman, with interest.