"He and James."
"You don't mean——"
"Mr Isaacs' man, they have dug up a lot of ground over there and planted asparagus. James was a gardener once, but as I have told you, he had misfortunes and had to take to the law. He is awfully poor, and his wife is ill; they live in a little street near Artesian Road, and father has been to see her; he came with me, and we brought her some wine; I carried it in a basket. See, is not that a beautiful rose?" she smiled at the rose, and Charles could not but admire her beauty.
"And then," resumed Fanny, the smile fading as the wind turned the rose's face away, "father is so unfortunate, all the people he lends money to won't pay him back, and stocks and shares and things go up and down, and always the wrong way, so he says, and he gets into such a rage with the house because he can't mortgage it—it was left in trust for me—and we can't let it, so we have to live in it."
"Why can you not let it?"
"Because of the ghost."
"Good gracious goodness!" gobbled Charles, taking the cigar from his mouth. "What nonsense are you talking, Cousin Fanny? Ghost! there are no such things as ghosts."
"Aren't there?" said Fanny. "I wish you saw our one."
"Do you really mean to try to make me believe——" cried Charles, then he foundered, tied up in his own vile English.
"We did let it once, a year ago, to a Major Sawyer," said Fanny, and she smiled down the garden path at some presumably pleasant vision. "It was in May; we let it to him for three months and went down to Ramsgate to economise. Major Sawyer moved in on a Friday; I remember that, for the next day was Saturday, and I shall never forget that Saturday.