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“That is why you came back?”

“There is no other reason.”

Mr. Barringcourt all this time had been sitting in his chair by the table. Rosalie was standing at the farther side of it. Now he got up and walked over to the fireplace, where the fire was burning brightly.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Rosalie Paleaf.”

“Brought up by an aunt and uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Always dumb, and therefore very much out of the world?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you learn the little bit of knowledge you possess?”

“I listened to it. I was not deaf, you know.”

“Could you read?”

“Yes, I can read. That is how I used to spend most of my time.”

“Travels, novels, or biography?”

“A little bit of both—all three, I mean. ‘The Life of Krimjo on the Desert Island,’ which was my favourite, contained a little of all, I think.”

“Ally Krimjo was only make-belief,” said he ruthlessly.

“Indeed he wasn’t! He had gone through everything he spoke about, the shipwreck and the loneliness, the savages and everything. Make-belief! Oh, Mr. Barringcourt, have you ever really read it through?”