“I adore it.... You see ... I’ve lost my heart here—! Tell them so—oh! especially to the men.... Whereabouts was I born? In Westmorland; yes. In England, Sir! Inquisitive? Why not at all: I was born in the sleepy peaceful town of Applethorp (three p’s), in the inmost heart—right in the very middle,” Miss Sinquier murmured, tucking a few field flowers under her chin, “of the Close.”
II
“SALLY,” her father said, “I could not make out where you sat at Vespers, child, to-night.”
In the old-world Deanery drawing room, coffee and liqueurs—a Sunday indulgence—had been brought in.
Miss Sinquier set down her cup.
Behind her, through the open windows, a riot of light leaves and creepers was swaying restively to and fro.
“I imagine the Font hid me,” she answered with a little laugh.
Canon Sinquier considered with an absent air an abundant-looking moon, then turned towards his wife.
“To-morrow, Mary,” he said, “there’s poor Mrs. Cushman again.”