They told me of it afterwards.

Jane said I was only fit for a glass case, and Mopsie declared I alighted from the old gig as if I had a mind to dance.

They were awed by the high heels on my boots, the feather in my hat, and the quilted satin of my pelisse.

They wondered I could deign to speak anything but French, and concluded I did so only out of compliment to their homeliness.
And I, meanwhile, decked in all the fanciful elegancies of a London toilette, sat down to breakfast in the long parlour at Hillsbro' Farm, with something in my heart that would not let me eat though I was hungry, and something in my eyes that would not let me see very well, though the sun came rich and yellow through each of the wide windows, forming one broad golden path down the middle of the room.

I saw but dimly the dark brown walls and ceiling, the stiff-backed chairs with their worn covers, the jar full of late roses that stood in either window, the heap of trailing ivy that overran the huge grate.