"Oh, scores and scores. Both Father and Mother were very restless people, and never could settle long in the same place. And after Mother died, Father grew even more restless, and was always wanting to be on the move. Frankie and I are annuals—not perennials—and have never taken root anywhere."
"Still it must have been rather exciting to move about so much."
"It was, in a picnicky sort of way, and of course it kept one from getting even the tiniest bit moss-grown or worm-eaten. But the nuisance of it was that we never could find anything that we wanted, because things get so awfully muddled up in a move, and no one can remember where they have been put."
"I conclude that a move is even worse than a spring-cleaning," I remarked.
"Much, much worse, though on the same lines; a sort of spring-cleaning possessed by the Devil."
"And I suppose that all the lost goods turned up eventually?"
Fay nodded her head with the little trick of manner I had already unconsciously begun to love. "A move—like the sea—will eventually give up its dead; but it does so on the instalment principle."
By that time we were down in the entrance-hall again, where Annabel was presiding over the tea-table, and Frank officiating as a sort of acolyte.
"Come and have some tea," I said, giving Fay a seat at the gate-legged table.
And I felt younger and gladder than I had felt for years at the sight of poor Wildacre's daughter sitting at my board and eating my salt.