“No,” I answered, as quietly as I could, “I had not thought of that.”
“And you still intend to go back to Altruria?”
“I hope so; I ought to have gone back long ago, and if I had not met the friends I have in this house—” I stopped, for I did not know how I should end what I had begun to say.
“I am glad you think we are your friends,” said the lady, “for we have tried to show ourselves your friends. I feel as if this had given me the right to say something to you that you may think very odd.”
“Say anything to me, my dear lady,” I returned. “I shall not think it unkind, no matter how odd it is.”
“Oh, it's nothing. It's merely that—that when you are not here with us I lose my grasp on Altruria, and—and I begin to doubt—”
I smiled. “I know! People here have often hinted something of that kind to me. Tell me, Mrs. Gray, do Americans generally take me for an impostor?”
“Oh no!” she answered, fervently. “Everybody that I have heard speak of you has the highest regard for you, and believes you perfectly sincere. But—”
“But what?” I entreated.
“They think you may be mistaken.”