I went back to the house that afternoon determined to make inquiries. Perhaps she was a neighbor,—a friend of the family!
Of all the individuals who have an appropriate and superior taste for the smart efforts of the fair sex, commend me to Barfleur. His interest and enthusiasm neither flags nor fails. Being a widower of discretion he knows exactly what is smart for a woman as well as a man, and all you have to do to make him prick up his ears attentively is to mention trig beauty as existing in some form, somewhere,—not too distant for his adventuring.
“What’s this?” I can see his eye lighting. “Beauty? A lovely woman? When? Where?”
This day, finding Wilkins in the garden trimming some bushes, I had said, “Wilkins, do you know any family hereabouts that keeps a white donkey?”
Wilkins paused and scratched his ear reflectively. “No, sir! I cawn’t say has I do, sir. I might harsk, sir, down in the village, hif you’re very hanxious to know.”
Be it known by all men that I feed Wilkins amply for all services performed,—hence his interest.
“Never mind for the present, Wilkins,” I replied. “I may want to know. If so, I’ll ask you.”
I knew he would inquire anyhow.
That night at dinner, the family being all present, Barfleur in his chair at the head of the table, the wine at his right, I said mildly—
“I saw the most beautiful woman to-day I have yet seen in England.”