many. I feel how, with you, they must all come up again for me: in fact you're bringing them out already, just while I look at you, as fast as ever you can. The fact that you knew every one—!" he went on; yet as if there were more in that too than he could quite trust himself about.
"Yes, I knew every one," said Cornelia Rasch; but this time with perfect simplicity. "I knew, I imagine, more than you do—or more than you did."
It kept him there, it made him wonder with his eyes on her. "Things about them—our people?"
"Our people. Ours only now."
Ah, such an interest as he felt in this—taking from her while, so far from scowling, he almost gaped, all it might mean! "Ours indeed—and it's awfully good they are; or that we're still here for them! Nobody else is—nobody but you: not a cat!"
"Well, I am a cat!" Cornelia grinned.
"Do you mean you can tell me things—?" It was too beautiful to believe.
"About what really was?" She artfully considered, holding him immensely now. "Well, unless they've come to you with time; unless you've learned—or found out."
"Oh," he reassuringly cried—reassuringly, it most seemed, for himself—"nothing has come to me with time, everything has gone from me. How I find out now! What creature has an idea—?"
She threw up her hands with the shrug of old days—the sharp little shrug his sisters used to imitate and
