which I was encouraging by not going back to bed.
"Does that mean that you 've lost them?"
"Yes," I said.
"And lately?"
"My father died when I was sixteen, my mother left me two years ago."
"You don't look more than nineteen now."
"I 'm nearly twenty-one."
"Well, I don't mean to catechize you, though one certainly must get friendly—or the other way—I suppose, penned up in a place like this all night. And you 've really been very kind to me. Although you 're a pretty girl, as you must know, I did n't think at first I was going to like you so much."
"And I did n't you," I retorted, laughing, because I really did begin to like the queer old lady now, and was glad I had n't dropped a pillow on her head.
"That's right. Be frank. I like frankness. Do you know, I believe you and I would get on very well together if our acquaintance was going to be continued? If Beau approves of a person, I let myself go."
"You use him as if he were a barometer."
"There you are again, with your funny ideas! I shall remember that one, and bring it out as if it were my own. I consider myself quite lucky to have got you for a travelling companion. It 's such a comfort to hear English again, and talk it, after having to converse by gesture—except with Beau. I hope you 're going on to Italy?"
"No. I 'm getting off at Cannes."
"I 'm sorry. But I suppose you 're glad?"
"Not particularly," said I.
nop
