'Oh, yes.'
She tried to open the window, a French one, which opened to the floor within and to a couple of stone steps without.
'Allow me,' murmured Goring, and as he drew back the latch his fingers closed for a moment over hers.
They were only friends—he was only a visitor—why should she not show him the view, or anything else that interested him? She took a Shetland shawl from a chair close by, threw it over her head, and, gathering the soft folds under her pretty chin in a hand that was white as a rosebud, passed out with him upon the little terrace hat overlooked her garden.
'And so that is Chilcote Church?'
'Yes, Captain Goring—an old edifice—old, they say, as the time of Edward the Elder. It is covered with ivy, and is a capital subject to sketch.'
'And is this building here, with the eaves, your stable?'
'Oh, no—we have no stables; but it is the scene of my peculiar care,' replied Alison, laughing.
'Indeed!'
'My hen-house.'