“Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. The thought made her exquisitely happy. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs. He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. She must weigh her situation. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper.
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