"A little of all three, perhaps," Katherine answered with shy demureness.
"Look here, young woman, I have remarked more than once that you possess a quality—almost unknown in ninety-nine females out of a hundred, and non-existent in the middle classes—a fine sense of humour. It is quite out of place—and like the royal rose imprinted upon the real queen's left shoulder, I expect we shall discover presently that the butcher and baker forebears are all moonshine, and that you are a princess in disguise.—See, that is Windsor—isn't it fine?"
"Ah! Yes!" cried Katherine. "It makes one think."
They were rushing along the road from Staines where they could see the splendid pile standing out against the sky.
"All those old grey stones put together by brutes and fools and brains and force. I will take you there myself some day."
"I shall love to go."
Then Her Ladyship became quite silent as was her custom when she felt inclined so to be. The obligation to make conversation never weighed upon her. This made her a delightful companion. They arrived at the park gates of Blissington Court about one o'clock, and Katherine Bush felt again a delightful excitement. She had never seen a big English country home except in pictures.
The lodge-keeper came out. He was an old man in a quaint livery.
"I cannot stand the untidy females escaping from the washtub who attend to most people's gates. This family of Peterson have opened those of Blissington for two hundred years, and have always worn the same sort of livery, from father to son. Their intelligence is at the lowest ebb, and they make capital gate-keepers. There is generally a 'simple' boy or two to carry on the business. The women folk keep out of sight, it is a tradition in the family—they take a pride in it. I give them unusually high wages, and whatever else grows more and more idiotic, the gate-keeping instinct survives in full force. There are three lodges—all kept by Petersons."
"How wonderful," said Katherine.