"No, no! An hour would be too much. Fifty-five minutes gives me exactly time to dress and shave and—I beg your pardon for going into these details. The point is I had just started for the bazaar—you see I like to go leisurely—and I was passing the lodge when I met a young woman, a fellow country-woman of yours—my wife mentioned to me, Miss Thompson, that you are an American?"
"Yes, I'm an American."
"Ah! Very fortunate! Extremely fortunate!" He stood twisting his long fingers together in great satisfaction. "The young woman I speak of is also an American, a most deserving person, but—er—she has met with reverses and—er—Mrs. Baxter has been kind enough to let her stay at the lodge and do what she can to—er—assist."
"I see," nodded the girl.
"Her name is Hester Storm, and, as she naturally feels lonely here, being an American, I thought that you would speak to her and—er—perhaps encourage her?"
"Of course I would."
"I may add that Miss Storm rendered me an important service the other day when I was sore beset in—er—I'll explain that later on. She is outside now, in fact, she seems anxious to meet you and—er—may I?"
"Certainly," said Betty, with cordial sympathy and following the curate toward the conservatory she made out the figure of a woman in a red cloak, a strangely familiar red cloak, sharply contrasted against the foliage, and as the woman turned and came forward Betty saw, with a start of recognition, that it was her companion on the train, Jenny Regan.
"This is the young woman—Miss Hester Storm," said the curate.
"Miss Hester Storm?" repeated Betty, in surprise, while the other threw her a beseeching glance for silence.