“I don’t know,” she answered. “Ever since I was born, and before.”
“And how old are you?”
“Fourteen next birthday.”
“And all that time,” he asked, “has there been no one living at Tredowen?”
“No one except Mrs. Tresfarwin,” she answered. “It belongs to a very rich man who is in prison.”
Wingrave’s face was immovable. He stood on one side, however, and turned towards his companion.
“We are keeping this young lady,” he remarked, “from what seems to be her daily pilgrimage. I wonder whether it is really the pictures, or Mrs. Tresfarwin’s cakes?”
She turned her shoulder upon him in silent scorn, and looked at Aynesworth a little wistfully.
“Goodbye!” she said.
He waved his hand as he strolled after Wingrave.