"But I thought," she said, presently—"I thought—there were to be no concealments."
"No more there are."
"But this isn't. . . . Isn't this. . . . Surely that's the bookcase you bought at Warwick—and these chairs and those candlesticks."
"I own it, Princess; I would scorn to deceive you."
"Then this is your house?"
"It is; just that."
"Only that? Is there nothing else that it is? Wasn't it once my house, for a very little while? Wasn't it here that you left me, that night when I ran away and I met Mr. Schultz? . . . No, I forgot. . . . Of course I didn't meet any one. . . . I mean when you came after me and found me at Tunbridge Wells. Oh! Suppose you hadn't found me!"
"How am I to suppose the impossible? You couldn't be in the same world with me and I not find you. Yes, you are right, as always; this is the house. Did you ever try bananas with chicken? Do! They rhyme perfectly."
"Don't seek to put me off with bananas. Was the house yours when you brought me here?"