"It would be as well to know their name," he said, as he sauntered after her trailing skirts.
"Cadwallader—Miss Martina B. Cadwallader—that is the aunt, and Miss Corrisande K. Trumpet—that is the niece," said Lady Grenellen, stalking ahead.
The windows of the long gallery where we were all sitting looked onto the court-yard, and two flys passed the angle of the turret.
"Look at the luggage!" exclaimed Babykins, and we all went to the window.
There was, indeed, a wonderful collection—both flys laden with enormous, iron-bound trunks as big as hen-houses. A pair of smart French maids seemed buried beneath them.
The entire party of us burned with curiosity to see the owners, but long before they appeared we were conscious of their presence.
Two of the most highly pitched American voices I have ever heard were saying civil things to our host and Lady Grenellen. More highly pitched than Hephzibah's, and that is the highest, I thought, there could be in the world.
"She is awfully good-looking," whispered Babykins, who caught sight of them first as they came through the hall.
The aunt walked in front with Lady Grenellen, a tall woman with a keen, dark face of the red Indian type, with pure white hair, beautifully done, and a perfect dignity of carriage.
The heiress followed with the Duke. She is small and plump and feminine-looking, with the sweetest dimpled face and great brown eyes. Both were exquisitely dressed and carried little bags at their waists. Their manner had complete assurance, without a trace of self-consciousness.