"I think, too," continued Mrs. Woods, "she has worried foolishly
about this ridiculous mystery of her parentage--as if it could make
the slightest difference to a girl with a quarter of a million, or
as if that didn't show quite conclusively that she WAS somebody!"
"Certainly," said Paul, quickly, with a relief that he nevertheless
felt was ridiculous.
"And, of course, I dare say it will all come out when she is of
age. I suppose you know if any of the family are still living?"
"I really do not."
"I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Woods, with a smile. "I forgot it's
a profound secret until then. But here we are at the house; I see
the girls have walked over to our neighbors'. Perhaps you would
like to have a few moments to yourself before you dress for dinner,
and your portmanteau, which has been sent for, comes from your
hotel. You must be tired of seeing so many people."
Paul was glad to accept any excuse for being alone, and, thanking
his hostess, followed a servant to his room--a low-ceilinged but
luxuriously furnished apartment on the first floor. Here he threw
himself on a cushioned lounge that filled the angle of the deep
embrasure--the thickness of the old adobe walls--that formed a part
of the wooden-latticed window.
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