The plain truth is that I never laid eyes on him until Sir
Henry Marquis pointed him out to me the day after I went down
from here to London. It was in Piccadilly Circus.
"There's your American," said Sir Henry.
The girl paused for a few moments. There was profound silence.
"And that isn't all of it. Nobody presented him to me. I
deliberately picked him up!"
Three persons were in the drawing-room. An old woman with high
cheekbones, a bowed nose and a firm, thin-lipped mouth was the
central figure. She sat very straight in her chair, her head up
and her hands in her lap. An aged man, in the khaki uniform of a
major of yeomanry, stood at a window looking out, his hands
behind his back, his chin lifted as though he were endeavoring to
see something far away over the English country - something
beyond the little groups of Highland cattle and the great oak
trees.
Beside the old woman, on a dark wood frame, there was a fire
screen made of the pennant of a Highland regiment. Beyond her
was a table with a glass top. Under this cover, in a sort of
drawer lined with purple velvet, there were medals, trophies and
decorations visible below the sheet of glass.
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