“You shall have your coffee,” said Miss Spencer, who had a faint red spot in each of her cheeks.
“It is well!” said the lady in the dressing-gown. “Find your bouk,” she added, turning to the young man.
He gazed vaguely round the room. “My grammar, d’ye mean?” he asked, with a helpless intonation.
But the large lady was inspecting me, curiously, and gathering in her dressing-gown with her white arm.
“Find your bouk, my friend,” she repeated.
“My poetry, d’ye mean?” said the young man, also staring at me again.
“Never mind your bouk,” said his companion. “To-day we will talk. We will make some conversation. But we must not interrupt. Come;” and she turned away. “Under the leetle tree,” she added, for the benefit of Miss Spencer.
Then she gave me a sort of salutation, and a “Monsieur!” with which she swept away again, followed by the young man.
Caroline Spencer stood there with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
“Who is that?” I asked.