“What were you doing there?”
“I used to sit in a tree and look over the wall—”
“What wall?”
“The wall of my house-my father’s house. He was not my father, but he married my mother. I am English.” She announced the fact with a little air of finality.
“Indeed?” said I.
“Yes. Father, mother—both English. He was Vice-Consul. He died before I was born. Then his friend Hamdi Effendi took my mother and married her. You see?”
I confessed I did not. “Where does Harry come in?” I inquired.
She looked puzzled. “Come in?” she echoed.
I perceived her knowledge of the English vernacular was limited. I turned my question differently.
“Oh,” she said with more animation. “He used to pass by the wall, and I talked to him when there was no one looking. He was so pretty—prettier than you,” she paused.