“Do you?” she said, softly, “then sit down and talk to me.”
She dropped down upon a grassy bank, looking up at me invitingly, and I accepted the invitation without demur.
“I love this old garden,” she declared, “although of course it is really no older than the rest of the place. I always think there should be peacocks, though.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “peacocks would be appropriate.”
“And little pages dressed in yellow velvet.”
She met my glance soberly for a moment and then burst into a peal of merry laughter.
“Do you know, Miss Beverley,” I said, watching her, “I find it hard to place you in the household of the Colonel.”
“Yes?” she said simply; “you must.”
“Oh, then you realize that you are—”
“Out of place here?”