Gregory sat beside him, questioning, but he
smoked on. He remembered nothing of such strangers. How should he know
who had been there months and months before? He smoked on. Gregory, very
weary, tried to wake his memory, said that the lady he was seeking for was
very beautiful, had a little mouth, and tiny, very tiny, feet. The man
only smoked on as sullenly as at first. What were little, very little,
mouths and feet to him. But his daughter leaned out in the window above.
She was dirty and lazy, and liked to loll there when travellers came, to
hear the men talk, but she had a soft heart. Presently a hand came out of
the window, and a pair of velvet slippers touched his shoulder, tiny
slippers with black flowers. He pulled them out of her hand. Only one
woman's feet had worn them, he knew that.
"Left here last summer by a lady," said the girl; "might be the one you are
looking for. Never saw any feet so small."
Gregory rose and questioned her.
They might have come in a wagon and spider, she could not tell. But the
gentleman was very handsome, tall, lovely figure, blue eyes, wore gloves
always when he went out. An English officer, perhaps; no Africander,
certainly.
Gregory stopped her.
The lady? Well, she was pretty, rather, the girl said; very cold, dull
air, silent. They stayed for, it might be, five days; slept in the wing
over against the stoep; quarrelled sometimes, she thought--the lady.
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