“You're quite welcome, I'm sure. No trouble at all.”
The assistant turned to go. His brain was beginning to regain a little of its normal poise, and he was dimly conscious that he had been absent from duty quite long enough.
“Maybe you'd like to know who 'tis you've helped,” observed the stout woman. “And, considerin' that we're likely to be next-door neighbors for a spell, I cal'late introductions are the proper thing. My name's Bascom. I'm housekeeper for Miss Ruth Graham. This is Miss Graham.”
The young lady offered a hand. Brown took it.
“Graham?” he repeated. “Where?” Then, remembering a portion of what Seth had told him, he added, “I see! the—the artist?”
“My brother is an artist. He and his friend, Mr. Hamilton, own this bungalow. They are abroad this summer, and I am going to camp here for a few weeks—Mrs. Bascom and I. I paint a little, too, but only for fun.”
Brown murmured a conventionality concerning his delight at meeting the pair, and once more headed for the door. But Mrs. Bascom's curiosity would not permit him to escape so easily.
“I thought,” she said, “when I see you standin' over there by the lights, that you must be one of the keepers. Not the head keeper—I knew you wa'n't him—but an assistant, maybe. But I guess you're only a visitor, Mister—Mister—?”
“Brown.”
“Yes, Mr. Brown. I guess you ain't no keeper, are you?”