CHAPTER XIX.
"Not long ago," said Hilda, "I had a chat with him. We sat on the grass in the middle of the Maidan, and there was nothing to interfere with my impressions?"
"What were your impressions? No!" Alicia cried. "No! Don't tell me. It is all so peaceful now, and simple, and straightforward. You think such extraordinary things. He comes here quite often, to talk about her. He is coming this afternoon. So I have impressions too—and they are just as good."
"All right." Hilda crossed her knees more comfortably. "What did you say the Surgeon-Major paid for those Teheran tiles?"
"Something absurd—I've forgotten. He writes to her regularly, diary letters, by every mail."
"Do you tell him what to put into them?"
"Hilda, sometimes—you're positively coarse."
"I dare say, my dear. You didn't come out of a cab, and you never are. I like being coarse, I feel nearer to nature then, but I don't say that as an excuse. I like the smell of warm kitchens and the talk of bus-drivers, and bread and herrings for my tea—all the low satisfactions appeal to me. Beer, too, and hand-organs."
"I don't know when to believe you. He talks about her quite freely, and—and so do I. She is really interesting in her way."
"And in perspective."