"Yes! yes!" she said. "Now I shall finish the clearing of my soul. You, after all, shall be my confessor."
We heard again a faltering footfall in the hallway. I raised an eyebrow in query.
"It is my father. Yes, but let him come. He also must hear. He is indeed the author of my story, such as it is.
"Father," she added, "come, sit you here. I have something to say to Mr. Trist."
She seated herself now on one of the low couches, her hands clasped across its arm, her eyes looking far away out of the little window, beyond which could be seen the hills across the wide Potomac.
"We are foreigners," she went on, "as you can tell. I speak your language better than my father does, because I was younger when I learned. It is quite true he is my father. He is an Austrian nobleman, of one of the old families. He was educated in Germany, and of late has lived there."
"I could have told most of that of you both," I said.
She bowed and resumed:
"My father was always a student. As a young man in the university, he was devoted to certain theories of his own. N'est-ce pas vrai, mon drôle?" she asked, turning to put her arm on her father's shoulder as he dropped weakly on the couch beside her.
He nodded. "Yes, I wass student," he said. "I wass not content with the ways of my people."