The notion was absurd.

All that appeared to be true was that Miss Floyd, in any circumstances, would be, and was, the equal of anybody.
"How charming your friend is!" he said presently to Cecilia Boyson, as they lingered on the veranda, waiting for the curator, in a scene now deserted.

"She tells me she is a teacher of music." Cecilia Boyson looked at him in amazement, and made him repeat his remark.

As he did so, his uncle called him, and he turned away.

Miss Boyson leant against one of the pillars of the veranda, shaking with suppressed laughter.
But at that moment the curator, a gentle, gray-haired man, appeared, shaking hands with the General, and bowing to the ladies.