As Nesta spoke Penelope looked at her.
“You certainly are very much changed,” she said. “I wouldn’t know you for the same girl.”
“And I wouldn’t know you for the same girl,” retorted Nesta. “You seem to be sort of—sort of watching yourself all the time.”
Penelope smiled. She slipped her hand through Nesta’s arm.
“Let us walk up and down,” she said.
The girls disappeared out of a low French window, and paced slowly up the shrubbery at Court Prospect. When they came to the end of the shrubbery they crossed the lawn and stood for a few moments just where they could get a peep into what had been the rose garden. That old-world garden where Angela used to walk when she was a child, and where her mother had walked before her. When they reached this spot, Penelope said very slowly:
“Do you know, Nesta, it was here, just here, she found me. Here on the ground.”
“Were you really just here?” said Nesta.
“I was, and I was about as miserable a girl as could be found in the wide world. I told you all about it, didn’t I?”
“Oh, yes, and we needn’t go into it now, need we?”