“But you see you don’t understand,” said the girl, dropping her voice despairingly.
Her aunt approached her. “Are you ill?” she asked. “Is anything the matter?”
The girl put her arms about her aunt’s neck and whispered something in her ear.
Only one word reached Caswell, though they were close to him. It was the word “stocking.”
The aunt’s face immediately grew severe. The girl blushed and looked down.
Caswell almost laughed. He understood. At least he thought he understood. This exquisite creature had a hole in her stocking.
But the big youth remained immovable, like a crouching statue with a shoe-lacing in his fingers.
“It was thoughtless of you not to have taken care—”
“Please!” said the girl, and she put her hand over her aunt’s mouth.
“Well, it’s your own loss,” said the aunt. “I shall write your mother about it. Come, Mr. Williams,” she added, “we have no time to waste. You know these paintings are by the old masters of Japan.”