Basil’s spirit was by this time in sad confusion, but he must answer her, and yet he could not bring himself to admit that it would be in a place far removed from their beloved haunts. An automatic second-self, doubtless summoned by the puzzling emergency, spoke for him.
“I think,” he said, slowly, “I might safely assert that I do not know as yet.”
She gave a light little laugh, and appeared to ponder for a moment.
“I”—there was the briefest suspension—“I am very glad you do not know as yet. Because it may turn out to be in Brittany!”
“That was a near thing,” Basil thought, drawing a profound but silent sigh of momentary relief.
“Still, are you quite sure that you do not know—as yet?” she resumed, taking a step in the direction of a sort of Dresden-china hod hanging between two pomegranate-bushes, that grew luxuriantly from old Spanish oil-jars of that green earthenware which makes one’s mouth water to look at, and plunging her hand into one of its cunningly devised compartments, extracted therefrom a little fistful of bird-seed.
“This is the pantry,” she explained, holding a fold of her skirt up to catch the surplus filtering through her fingers. “Would you like to feed them?”
“Whom?”
“Again?” she laughed. “Wool-gathering again! Why, naturally, I meant the elephants in the Jardin des Plantes. How did you fail to guess that?”
“I am sorry.... I was trying to solve ... a problem ... concerning the ... er ... social question.”