“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?”
“Quite.”
“Of course I am.”
She smiled, shook her head, and changed the subject.
“I am so glad Mr. Paul Harley has come down,” she confessed.
“You know my friend by name, then?”
“Yes,” she replied, “someone I met in Nice spoke of him, and I know he is very clever.”
“In Nice? Did you live in Nice before you came here?”
Val Beverley nodded slowly, and her glance grew oddly retrospective.
“I lived for over a year with Madame de Stämer in a little villa on the Promenade des Anglaise,” she replied. “That was after Madame was injured.”
“She sustained her injuries during the war, I understand?”
