"
"Do you know the Yorkshire dales?" asked Otway, watching her as she
watched a nice little ring of white smoke from the end of her
cigarette.
"No! That's an idea. It's your own country, isn't it?"
"But--how do you know that?"
"Dreamt it."
"I wasn't born there, but lived there as a child, and later a
little. You might do worse than the dales, if you like that kind of
country. Wensleydale, for instance. There's an old Castle, and a
very interesting one, part of it habitable, where you can get
quarters."
"A Castle? Superb!"
"Where Queen Mary was imprisoned for a time, till she made an escape
----"
"Magnificent! Can I have the whole Castle to myself?"
"The furnished part of it, unless someone else has got it already
for this summer. There's a family, the caretakers, always in
possession--if things are still as they used to be."
"Write for me at once, will you? Write immediately! There is paper
on the desk."
Piers obeyed. Whilst he sat penning the letter, Mrs. Borisoff
lighted a second cigarette, her face touched with a roguish smile.
She studied Otway's profile for a moment; became grave; fell into a
mood of abstraction, which shadowed her features with weariness and
melancholy. Turning suddenly to put a question, Piers saw the change
in her look, and was so surprised that he forgot what he was going
to say.
"Finished?" she asked, moving nervously in her chair.
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