I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people
I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice."
Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was
presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice
division.
"Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece, when she
judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
"Hardly a soul," said Framton. "My sister was staying here, at the
rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of
introduction to some of the people here."
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
"Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued the
self-possessed young lady.
"Only her name and address," admitted the caller. He was wondering
whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An
undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine
habitation.
"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the child; "that
would be since your sister's time."
"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot
tragedies seemed out of place.
"You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October
afternoon," said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened
on to a lawn.
"It is quite warm for the time of the year," said Framton; "but has that
window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
"Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her
two young brothers went off for their day's shooting.
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