"This is Stornham village, ain't it, ma'am?" he inquired.
"Yes, my man." His costume and general aspect seemed to indicate that he
was of the class one addressed as "my man," though there was something a
little odd about him.
"Thank you. That wasn't Miss Vanderpoel's eldest sister in that
carriage, was it?"
"Miss Vanderpoel's----" Mrs. Brent hesitated. "Do you mean Lady
Anstruthers?"
"I'd forgotten her name. I know Miss Vanderpoel's eldest sister lives at
Stornham--Reuben S. Vanderpoel's daughter."
"Lady Anstruthers' younger sister is a Miss Vanderpoel, and she is
visiting at Stornham Court now." Mrs. Brent could not help adding,
curiously, "Why do you ask?"
"I am going to see her. I'm an American."
Mrs. Brent coughed to cover a slight gasp. She had heard remarkable
things of the democratic customs of America. It was painful not to be
able to ask questions.
"The lady in the carriage was the Countess of Dunholm," she said rather
grandly. "They are going to the Court to call on Miss Vanderpoel."
"Then Miss Vanderpoel's there yet. That's all right. Thank you, ma'am,"
and lifting his cap again he turned into the little public house.
The Dunholm party had been accustomed on their rare visits to Stornham
to be received by the kind of man-servant in the kind of livery which
is a manifest, though unwilling, confession.
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