“Yes, Trude. Then there’s Maria, the pock-marked one, and a couple of new ones from Crowchester, sisters named Daisy and Sarah, who live with John and Etta at the tenant house, out near the stables, and seem mainly interested in going into Crowchester. John occasionally employs others to assist him in the garden, his wife helps, I believe, with the laundry-work, and old Margret comes over from Keyport to lend a hand now and then. That’s the staff.”
“But look here, David,” said Gabrielle. “You see my open window up there, with the curtain blowing—and then all those blank windows—then turn the corner of the court and come out again in the north wing—up there—there was some light up there last night! I saw it when my own gaslight blew out. It was unmistakable, coming through the chinks of shutters! It gave me the creeps for a moment.”
“Reflection!” David said, smiling. “Reflection in glass.”
“No, for my light was out.”
“Reflection of some other window, then.”
“Yes, but whose?”
“I don’t know,” he told her, amused. “You’ll have ample opportunity to find out, my dear. I’m wondering what you’ll do with yourself, here all alone with Aunt Flora!”
“I’ll work,” she said, stoutly. But he could see that she herself felt a little daunted by the prospect. “I’ll practise, and keep up my French, and take walks into Keyport and Crowchester, and perhaps”—and she gave him a laughing look—“design all the little rooms and hallways of houses in beans when it rains!”
“Good Lord!” David said, with a great laugh. “Do you remember my houses designed in white beans to amuse you and Sylvia on wet holidays? But you have no special plans for yourself, Gay?” he asked, more soberly. “Nothing you especially want to do?”
“I talked it over with Sister Borromeo and Sister Alcantara——” she was beginning, with a faintly worried look, when David laughed again.