“We are not English,” said my companion, watching me helplessly while I threw open the shutters of one of the divisions of the wide high window.
“You speak the language so beautifully: might I ask what you are?” Seen from above the garden was certainly shabby; but I perceived at a glance that it had great capabilities. She made no rejoinder, she was so lost in staring at me, and I exclaimed, “You don’t mean to say you are also by chance American?”
“I don’t know; we used to be.”
“Used to be? Surely you haven’t changed?”
“It’s so many years ago—we are nothing.”
“So many years that you have been living here? Well, I don’t wonder at that; it’s a grand old house. I suppose you all use the garden,” I went on, “but I assure you I shouldn’t be in your way. I would be very quiet and stay in one corner.”
“We all use it?” she repeated after me, vaguely, not coming close to the window but looking at my shoes. She appeared to think me capable of throwing her out.
“I mean all your family, as many as you are.”
“There is only one other; she is very old—she never goes down.”
“Only one other, in all this great house!” I feigned to be not only amazed but almost scandalized. “Dear lady, you must have space then to spare!”