“It is Dan,” he answered; and if ever I heard pain in a tone, I heard it in his.
“You are Johnny Ludlow, I know!” he said, holding out his hand to me in the warmest manner, as he turned from his aunt. “Sam told me about you this morning.” And we were friends from that moment.
Dan brought himself to an anchor by Mina Knox. He was no beauty certainly, but he had a good face. Leaning over Mina’s chair, he began whispering to her—and she whispered back again. Was there anything between them? It looked like it—at any rate, on his side—judging by his earnest expression and the loving looks that shot from his honest grey eyes.
“Are you really French?” I asked of Madame St. Vincent, while standing by her side to drink some tea.
“Really,” she answered, smiling. “Why?”
“Because you speak English exactly like ourselves.”
“I speak it better than I do French,” she candidly said. “My mother was English, and her old maid-servant was English, and they educated me between them. It was my father who was French—and he died early.”
“Was your mother a native of Worcestershire?”
“Oh dear, no: she came from Wales. What made you think of such a thing?”
“Your accent is just like our Worcestershire accent. I am Worcestershire myself: and I could have thought you were.”