“Yes—in England and France.”
“Your niece, I think you said.”
I had said it, unfortunately, and it could not be unsaid now without many explanations. So I nodded.
“She doesn't—er—behave like an American. She hasn't the American manner, I mean to say. Now Miss Cahoon has—er—she has—”
“Miss Cahoon's manner is American. So is mine; we ARE Americans, you see.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” hastily. “When are you and I to have the nine holes you promised, Knowles?”
One fine afternoon the invalid came downstairs. The “between-maid” had arranged chairs and the table on the lawn. We were to have tea there; we had tea every day, of course—were getting quite accustomed to it.
Frances—I may as well begin calling her that—looked in better health then than at any time since our meeting. She was becomingly, although simply gowned, and there was a dash of color in her cheeks. Hephzibah escorted her to the tea table. I rose to meet them.
“Frank—Frances, I mean—is goin' to join us to-day,” said Hephzy. “She's beginnin' to look real well again, isn't she.”
I said she was. Frances nodded to me and took one of the chairs, the most comfortable one. She appeared perfectly self-possessed, which I was sure I did not. I was embarrassed, of course. Each time I met the girl the impossible situation in which she had placed us became more impossible, to my mind. And the question, “What on earth shall we do with her?” more insistent.