As they were
turning to make their way to the hotel for dinner, Faith found herself
beside the English lady, who said in a gentle voice, which seemed oddly
out of place with her reserved, almost haughty, manner,
"Have you enjoyed the afternoon, my child?"
"Very much, thank you," said Faith. "There are so many queer-looking
people, and it is diverting to visit all these open booths, and try to
understand their jargon and make them understand ours. I feel in a
dream sometimes."
"Then you have not traveled largely?"
"Very little, my lady."
"I heard you and your sister speak of being in the United States some
time, did I not?"
"Oh yes, a year. Our father was born there."
"And you were in Boston?"
"Yes, many times."
"Did you ever go to any of the suburbs--Brookline, for instance?"
"I was there twice. We had friends living there. Isn't it a charming
place? It made me think of some of our prettiest English towns."
"Oh, it is better--that is, I have heard it spoken of as a little
paradise. Did you go about considerable?"
Faith glanced at her, surprised by several things. First, there was a
wistful note in her voice which seemed singular when speaking of a town
never visited; second, with all her precise use of language, once in a
while this woman of the highest aristocracy made an odd slip in a
grammatical way. She was a somewhat puzzling compound. Faith answered,
"A little. We rode up on Corey's Hill, of course, and around by the
reservoir, and out towards Jamaica Pond--but you do not know, perhaps--"
"Go on, pray! I like to hear it.
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