"I think, you have been a stranger here too, Mrs. Busby. Were you not late in returning to town?"
"Yes— September was so warm! But I think eight months of the year is sufficient to spend in the city. Soul and body want the cultivation of nature for the other four; don't you think so? The ocean and the mountains are better than books. There is enlargement of the faculties to be sought, as well as stores for the memory."
"And what mountains, and what sea, have you been looking upon this summer?"
"We have seen no mountains this year; we kept to the sea beach. Except for a short interval. And you, Mr. Southwode? What have you done with yourself?"
"My last achievement was to let somebody run into me, in the Park, and sprain my ankle in consequence."
There followed of course inquiries and a full account of the affair. Mr. Digby could not be let off with less; and then advice and recipes, in the giving of which Mrs. Busby was quite motherly.
"And have you resolved at last to make your home in America?" she asked after this.
"I make my home wherever I am," the young man replied, with his slight grave smile.
"But surely you do not think it well for any ordinary mortal to imitate the Wandering Jew, and have a settled home nowhere?" said Mrs. Busby, shewing her white teeth, of which she had a good many and in good order.
"It may be best for some people," the young man said lightly. "But I came to speak to you about a matter of business. Mrs. Busby, pardon me for asking, had you once a sister?"