"I heard you," she said. "Isn't that a motor car?"
"I'm afraid I've made a mistake in my road. I should have turned off up
above--I never dreamed"--I began.
"But I'm very glad. Fancy a motor car coming into the garden! It will be
such a treat----" She turned and made as though looking about her. "You--
you haven't seen any one have you--perhaps?"
"No one to speak to, but the children seemed interested at a distance."
"Which?"
"I saw a couple up at the window just now, and I think I heard a little
chap in the grounds."
"Oh, lucky you!" she cried, and her face brightened. "I hear them, of
course, but that's all. You've seen them and heard them?"
"Yes," I answered. "And if I know anything of children one of them's
having a beautiful time by the fountain yonder. Escaped, I should
imagine."
"You're fond of children?"
I gave her one or two reasons why I did not altogether hate them.
"Of course, of course," she said. "Then you understand. Then you won't
think it foolish if I ask you to take your car through the gardens, once
or twice--quite slowly. I'm sure they'd like to see it. They see so
little, poor things. One tries to make their life pleasant, but----" she
threw out her hands towards the woods. "We're so out of the world here."
"That will be splendid," I said. "But I can't cut up your grass."
She faced to the right. "Wait a minute," she said. "We're at the South
gate, aren't we? Behind those peacocks there's a flagged path.
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