'Oh, by heart—that's nothing!' she murmured, smiling. 'My aunt used to know him—to know him'—she paused an instant and I wondered what she was going to say—'to know him as a visitor.'
'As a visitor?' I repeated, staring.
'He used to call on her and take her out.'
I continued to stare. 'My dear lady, he died a hundred years ago!'
'Well,' she said, mirthfully, 'my aunt is a hundred and fifty.'
'Mercy on us!' I exclaimed; 'why didn't you tell me before? I should like so to ask her about him.'
'She wouldn't care for that—she wouldn't tell you,' Miss Tita replied.
'I don't care what she cares for! She must tell me—it's not a chance to be lost.'
'Oh, you should have come twenty years ago: then she still talked about him.'
'And what did she say?' I asked, eagerly.
'I don't know—that he liked her immensely.'
'And she—didn't she like him?'
'She said he was a god.' Miss Tita gave me this information flatly, without expression; her tone might have made it a piece of trivial gossip. But it stirred me deeply as she dropped the words into the summer night; it seemed such a direct testimony.
'Fancy, fancy!' I murmured. And then, 'Tell me this, please—has she got a portrait of him? They are distressingly rare.'
'A portrait? I don't know,' said Miss Tita; and now there was discomfiture in her face. 'Well, good-night!' she added; and she turned into the house.
