Michael sat down upon the edge of it, and went on in his ironical tone:

"Had I known I was to have the honor of this visit, I should certainly
have had it moved."

"There is no use being sarcastic," the girl said, almost crying now. "It
hurts very much, and--and--I want to go home."

Mr. Arranstoun pushed a comfortable monster seat toward her, and said
more sympathetically:

"I am very sorry--but where is home?"

The girl sank into the chair, and smoothed out her pink cotton frock;
the skimpy skirt (not as narrow as in these days, but still short and
spare!) showed a perfect pair of feet and ankles.

"She's American, of course, then," Michael said to himself, observing
these, "and quite pretty if that smudge of grime was off her face."

She was looking at him now with her large, innocent eyes, which
contained no shadow of _gêne_ over the unusual situation, and then she
answered quite simply:

"I haven't a home, you know--I'm just staying at the Inn with Uncle
Mortimer and Aunt Jemima and--and--Mr. Greenbank--and we are tourists, I
suppose, and were looking at the pictures--when--when I had to run
away."