"Why, so he was," he said. "A good many tourists and picnic-parties used to come to the inn for tea. I believe he sold as much tea as beer."
"And was she really a nurse?" I asked.
"Well, yes, in a way, but not like a modern trained nurse," he replied. "Lady—let me see—"
"Mowbray," I suggested.
"Mowbray! that's the name," he said. "Well, Lady Mowbray had a daughter who was sadly afflicted—I believe she was almost an idiot—and Miss Smith used to take care of her—was her 'companion' as you heard her say. I suppose she thinks that word is more genteel than nurse. Lady Mowbray lived somewhere near Bath."
"And had also a house in Bryanston Street," I said.
"Ah, I see you know all about it," said my father.
"With a difference," I rejoined. "Lady Mowbray was Miss Cottrell's dearest friend and could not bear to be separated from her."
"Really! Well, I believe she was very grateful for Miss Smith's devotion to her child. Miss Smith was generally with them except that she came to the 'Havelock Arms' for a month or so in the summer, and then used to help her aunt look after her customers. So she has been posing here as a fine lady! How droll!"
And father quietly laughed with an air of the utmost amusement.