'What house, Mr. Carter?'
'My father's house, of course, Miss Phyllis. And'
'Oh, but that must be ages ago!' cried she.
Mrs. Hilary rose, cast one glance at me, and turned to the writing-table. Her pen began to scratch almost immediately.
'And under the apple-tree,' I pursued, 'we had many pleasant conversations.'
'What about?' asked Miss Phyllis.
'One thing and another,' I returned. 'The schoolroom windows looked out that way—a circumstance which made matters more comfortable for everybody.'
'I should have thought' began Miss Phyllis, smiling slightly, but keeping an apprehensive eye on Mrs. Hilary's back.
'Not at all,' I interrupted. 'My sisters saw us, you see. Well, of course, they entertained an increased respect for me, which was all right, and a decreased respect for the governess, which was also all right. We met in the hour allotted to French lessons—by an undesigned but appropriate coincidence.'
'I shall say about thirty-five, Phyllis,' called Mrs. Hilary from the writing-table.
'Yes, Cousin Mary,' called Miss Phyllis. 'Did you meet often, Mr. Carter?'
'Every evening in the French hour,' said I.
'She'll have got over any nonsense by then,' called Mrs. Hilary. 'They're often full of it.'
'She had remarkably pretty hair,' I continued
