"
'I could not speak, his words and tone were so tender. He broke the
silence by saying,
'"Miss Wynne, there is one thing in connection with you that puzzles
me very much. You speak of yourself as though you were a kind of
Welsh peasant girl, and yet your conversation--well, I mustn't tell
you what I think of that."
'This made me laugh outright, for ladies who called on Miss Dalrymple
used to make the same remark.
'"Mr. D'Arcy," I said, "you are harbouring the greatest little
impostor in the British Islands. I am the mere mocking-bird of one of
the most cultivated women living. My true note is that of a simple
Welsh bird."
'"A Welsh warbler," he said, with a smile, "but who was the original
of the impostor?"
'"Miss Dalrymple," I said.
'"Miss Dalrymple, the writer!--why I knew her years ago--before you
were born."
'Our talk had been so lively that we had not noticed the passage of
time, nor had we noticed that the clouds had been gathering for a
summer shower. Suddenly the rain fell heavily; although we ran to the
house, we were quite wet by the time we got in.
Pages:
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727