she was asleep next morning when i looked into her bedroom, so i shut the door softly, and charging gertrud not to disturb her, went out for a walk. it was not quite eight and people had not got away from their coffee yet, so i had it to myself, the walk along the shore beneath the beeches, beside the flashing morning sea. the path runs along for a little close to the water at the foot of the steep beech-grown hill that shuts the west winds out of binz—a hill steep enough and high enough to make him pant grievously who goes up it after dinner; then on the right comes a deep narrow cutting running up into the woods, cut, it seems, entirely out of smoothest, greenest moss, so completely are its sides covered with it. standing midway up this cutting in the soft gloom of its green walls, with the branches of the beeches meeting far away above, and down at the bottom the sheet of shining water, i found absolutely the most silent bit of the world i have ever been in. the silence was wonderful. there seemed positively to be no sound at all. no sound came down from the beech leaves, and yet they were stirring; no sound came up from the water, not a ripple, not a splash; i heard no birds while i stood there, nor any hum of insects. it might have been the entrance to some holy place, so strange and solemn was the quiet; and looking from out of its shadows to the brightness shining at the upper end where the sun was flooding the bracken with happy morning radiance, i felt suddenly that my walk had ceased to be a common thing, and that i was going up into the temple of god to pray.

i know no surer way of shaking off the dreary crust formed about the soul by the trying to do one's duty or the patient enduring of having somebody else's duty done to one, than going out alone, either at the bright beginning of the day, when the earth is still unsoiled by the feet of the strenuous and only god is abroad; or in the evening, when the hush has come, out to the blessed stars, and looking up at them wonder at the meanness of the day just past, at the worthlessness of the things one has struggled for, at the folly of having been so angry, and so restless, and so much afraid. nothing focusses life more exactly than a little while alone at night with the stars. what are perfunctory bedroom prayers hurried through in an atmosphere of blankets, to this deep abasement of the spirit before the majesty of heaven? and as a consecration of what should be yet one more happy day, of what value are those hasty morning devotions, disturbed by fears lest the coffee should be getting cold and that person, present in every household, whose property is always to reprove, be more than usually provoked, compared to going out into the freshness of the new day and thanking god deliberately under his own wide sky for having been so good to us? i know that when i had done my open-air te deum up there in the sun-flooded space among the shimmering bracken i went on my way with a lightheartedness never mine after indoor religious exercises. the forest was so gay that morning, so sparkling, so full of busy, happy creatures, it would have been a sorry heart that did not feel jolly in such society. in that all-pervading wholesomeness there was no room for repentance, no place for conscience-stricken beating of the breast; and indeed i think we waste a terrible amount of time repenting. the healthy attitude, the only reasonable one towards a fault made or a sin committed is surely a vigorous shake of one's moral shoulders, vigorous enough to shake it off and out of remembrance. the sin itself was a sad waste of time and happiness, and absolutely no more should be wasted in lugubriously reflecting on it. shall we, poor human beings at such a disadvantage from the first in the fight with fate through the many weaknesses and ailments of our bodies, load our souls as well with an ever-growing burden of regret and penitence? shall we let a weight of vivid memories break our hearts? how are we to get on with our living if we are continually dropping into sloughs of bitter and often unjust self-reproach? every morning comes the light, and a fresh chance of doing better. is it not the sheerest folly and ingratitude to let yesterday spoil the god-given to-day?

there had been a heavy dew, and the moss along the wayside was soaked with it, and the leaves of the slender young beeches sparkled with it, and the bracken bending over the path on either side left its wetness on my dress as i passed. nowhere was there a single bit of gloom where you could sit down and be wretched. the very jays would have laughed you out of countenance if you had sat there looking sorrowful. sometimes the path was narrow, and the trees shut out the sky; sometimes it led me into the hot sunshine of an open, forest-fringed space; once it took me along the side of a meadow sloping up on its distant side to more forest, with only a single row of great beeches between me and the heat and light dancing over the grass; and all the way i had squirrels for company, chattering and enjoying themselves as sensible squirrels living only in the present do; and larks over my head singing in careless ecstasy just because they had no idea they were probably bad larks with pasts; and lizards, down at my feet, motionless in the hot sun, quite unaware of how wicked it becomes to lie in the sun doing nothing directly you wear clothes and have consciences. as for the scent of the forest, he who has been in it early after a dewy night knows that, and the effect it has on the spirits of him who smells it; so i need not explain how happy i was and how invigorated as i climbed up a long hill where the wood was thick and cool, and coming out at the top found i had reached a place of turf and sunshine, with tables in the shade at the farther side, and in the middle, coffee-pot in hand, a waiter.

this waiter came as a shock. my thoughts had wandered quite into the opposite channel to the one that ends in waiters. there he stood, however, solitary and suggestive, in the middle of the sunny green, a crumpled waiter in regard to shirt-front, and not a waiter, i should say, of more than bi-weekly washings; but his eye was persuasive, steam came out of the spout of his coffee-pot, and out of his mouth as i walked towards him issued appropriate words about the weather. i had meant to go back to breakfast with charlotte, and there was no reason at all why i should cross the green and walk straight up to the waiter; but there was that in his eye which made me feel that if i did not drink his coffee not only had i no business on the top of the hill but i was unspeakably base besides. so i sat down at one of the tables beneath the beeches—there were at least twelve tables, and only one other visitor, a man in spectacles—and the waiter produced a tablecloth that made me shiver, and poured me out a cup of coffee and brought me a roll of immense resistance—one of yesterday's, i imagined, the roll cart from binz not having had time yet to get up the hill. he fetched this roll from a pretty house with latticed windows standing on the side of the green, and he fixed me with his hungry eye and told me the house was an inn, and that it was not only ready but anxious to take me as a lodger for any period i might choose. i excused myself on the plea of its distance from the water. he said that precisely this distance was its charm. 'the lady,' he continued, with a wave of his coffee-pot that immediately caused a thin streak of steam to rise from the grass—'the lady can see for herself how idyllic is the situation.'

the lady murmured assent; and in order to avoid his hungry eye busied herself dividing her roll among some expectant fowls who, plainly used to the business, were crowding round her; so that the roll's staleness, perhaps intentional, ended by being entirely to the good of the inn.

by the time the fowls were ready for more the waiter, who had nothing pressing on hand, had become a nuisance too great to be borne. i would have liked to sit there and rest in the shade, watching the clouds slowly appear above the tree-tops opposite and sail over my head and out of sight, but i could not because of the waiter. so i paid him, got up, once more firmly declined either to take or look at rooms at the inn, and wished him a good morning instinct with dignity and chill.

'the lady will now of course visit the jagdschloss,' said the waiter, whipping out a bundle of tickets of admission.

'the jagdschloss?' i repeated; and following the direction of his eyes i saw a building through the trees just behind where i had been sitting, on the top of a sharp ascent.

so that was where my walk had led me to. the guide-book devotes several animated pages to this jagdschloss, or shooting lodge. it belongs to prince putbus. its round tower, rising out of a green sea of wood, was a landmark with which i had soon grown familiar. whenever you climb up a hill in rügen to see the view, you see the jagdschloss. whichever way you drive, it is always the central feature of the landscape. if it isn't anywhere else it is sure to be on the horizon. only in some northern parts of the island does one get away from it, and even there probably a telescope used with skill would produce it at once. and here i was beneath its walls. well, i had not intended going over it, and all i wanted at that moment was to get rid of the waiter and go on with my walk. but it was easier to take a ticket than to refuse and hear him exclaim and protest; so i paid fifty pfennings, was given a slip of paper, and started climbing the extremely steep ascent.

the site was obviously chosen without the least reference to the legs or lungs of tourists. they arrive at the top warm and speechless, and sinking down on the steps between two wolves made of copper the first thing they do is to spend several minutes gasping. then they ring a bell, give up their tickets and umbrellas, and are taken round in batches by an elderly person who manifestly thinks them poor things.

when i got to the top i found the other visitor, the man in spectacles, sitting on the steps getting his gasping done. having finished mine before him, he being a man of bulk, i rang the bell. the elderly official, who had a singular talent for making one feel by a mere look what a worm one really is, appeared. 'i cannot take each of you round separately,' he said, pointing at the man still fighting for air on the bottom step, 'or does your husband not intend to see the schloss?'

'my husband?' i echoed, astonished.

'now, sir,' he continued impatiently, addressing the back below, 'are you coming or not?'

the man in spectacles made a great effort, caught hold of the convenient leg of one of the copper wolves, pulled himself on to his feet with its aid, and climbed slowly up the steps.

'the public is requested not to touch the objects of art,' snapped the custodian, glancing at the wolf's leg to see if it had suffered.

the man in spectacles looked properly ashamed of his conduct; i felt ashamed of myself too, but only on the more general grounds of being such a worm; and together we silently followed the guide into the house, together gave up our tickets, and together laid our stick and sunshade side by side on a table.

a number was given to the man in spectacles.

'and my number?' i inquired politely.

'surely one suffices?' said the guide, eyeing me with disapproval; for taking me for the wife of the man in spectacles he regarded my desire to have a number all to myself as only one more instance of the lengths to which the modern woman in her struggle for emancipation will go.

the stick and sunshade were accordingly tied together.

'do you wish to ascend the tower?' he asked my companion, showing us the open-work iron staircase winding round and round inside the tower up to the top.

'gott du allmächtiger, nein,' was the hasty reply after a glance and a shudder.

taking for granted that without my husband i would not want to go up towers he did not ask me, but at once led the way through a very charming hall decorated with what are known as trophies of the chase, to a locked door, before which stood a row of enormous grey felt slippers.

'the public is not allowed to enter the princely apartments unless it has previously drawn these slippers over its boots,' said the guide as though he were quoting.

'all of them?' i asked, faintly facetious.

again he eyed me, but this time in silence.

the man in spectacles thrust his feet into the nearest pair. they were generously roomy even for him, and he was a big man with boots to match. i looked down the row hoping to see something smaller, and perhaps newer, but they were all the same size, and all had been worn repeatedly by other tourists.

'the next time i come to the jagdschloss,' i observed thoughtfully, as i saw my feet disappear into the gaping mouths of two of these woolly monsters, 'i shall bring my own slippers. this arrangement may be useful, but no one could call it select.'

neither of my companions took the least notice of me. the guide looked disgusted. judging from his face, though he still thought me a worm he now suspected me of belonging to that highly objectionable class known as turned.

having seen us safely into our slippers he was about to unlock the door when the bell rang. he left us standing mute before the shut door, and leaning over the balustrade—for, reader, as charlotte brontë would say, he had come upstairs—he called down to the fräulein who had taken our stick and sunshade to let in the visitors. she did so; and as she flung open the door i saw, through the pillars of the balustrade, brosy on the threshold, and at the bottom of the steps, leaning against one of the copper wolves, her arm, indeed, flung over its valuable shoulder, the bishop's wife gasping.

at this sight the custodian rushed downstairs. the man in spectacles and myself, mute, meek, and motionless in our felt slippers, held our breaths.

'the public is requested not to touch the objects of art!' shouted the custodian as he rushed.

'is he speaking to me, dear?' asked mrs. harvey-browne, looking up at her son.

'i think he is, mother,' said ambrose. 'i don't think you may lean on that wolf.'

'wolf?' said his mother in surprise, standing upright and examining the animal through her eyeglasses with interest. 'so it is. i thought they were prussian eagles.'

'anyhow you mustn't touch it, mother,' said ambrose, a slight impatience in his voice. 'he says the public are not to touch things.'

'does he really call me the public? do you think he is a rude person, dear?'

'does the lady intend to see the schloss or not?' interrupted the custodian. 'i have another party inside waiting.'

'come on, mother—you want to, don't you?'

'yes—but not if he's a rude man, dear,' said mrs. harvey-browne, slowly ascending the steps. 'perhaps you had better tell him who father is.'

'i don't think it would impress him much,' said brosy, smiling. 'parsons come here too often for that.'

'parsons! yes; but not bishops,' said his mother, coming into the echoing hall, through whose emptiness her last words rang like a trumpet.

'he wouldn't know what a bishop is. they don't have them.'

'no bishops?' exclaimed his mother, stopping short and staring at her son with a face of concern.

'bitte um die eintrittskarten,' interrupted the custodian, slamming the door; and he pulled the tickets out of brosy's hand.

'no bishops?' continued mrs. harvey-browne, 'and no early fathers, as that smashed-looking person, that cousin of frau nieberlein's, told us last night? my dear brosy, what a very strange state of things.'

'i don't think she quite said that, did she? they have early fathers right enough. she didn't understand what you meant.'

'stick and umbrella, please,' interrupted the custodian, snatching them out of their passive hands. 'take the number, please. now this way, please.'

he hurried, or tried to hurry, them under the tower, but the bishop's wife had not hurried for years, and would not have dreamed of doing so; and when he had got them under it he asked if they wished to make the ascent. they looked up, shuddered, and declined.

'then we will at once join the other party,' said the custodian, bustling on.

'the other party?' exclaimed mrs. harvey-browne in german. 'oh, i hope no objectionable tourists? i quite thought coming so early we would avoid them.'

'only two,' said the custodian: 'a respectable gentleman and his wife.'

the man in spectacles and i, up to then mute, meek, and motionless in our grey slippers, started simultaneously. i looked at him cautiously out of the corners of my eyes, and found to my confusion that he was looking at me cautiously out of the corners of his. in another moment the harvey-brownes stood before us.

after one slight look of faintest surprise at my companion the pleasant ambrose greeted me as though i were an old friend; and then bowing with a politeness acquired during his long stay in the fatherland to the person he supposed was my husband, introduced himself in german fashion by mentioning his name, and observed that he was exceedingly pleased to make his acquaintance. 'es freut mich sehr ihre bekanntschaft zu machen,' said the pleasant ambrose.

'gleichfalls, gleichfalls,' murmured the man in spectacles, bowing repeatedly, and obviously astonished. to the bishop's wife he also made rapid and bewildered bows until he saw she was gazing over his head, and then he stopped. she had recognised my presence by the merest shadow of a nod, which i returned with an indifference that was icy; but, oddly enough, what offended me more than her nod was the glance she had bestowed on the man in spectacles before she began to gaze over his head. he certainly did not belong to me, and yet i was offended. this seemed to me so subtle that it set me off pondering.

'the public is not allowed to enter the princely apartments unless it has previously drawn these slippers over its boots,' said the custodian.

mrs. harvey-browne looked at him critically. 'he has a very crude way of expressing himself, hasn't he, dear?' she remarked to ambrose.

'he is only quoting official regulations. he must, you know, mother. and we are undoubtedly the public.'

ambrose looked at my feet, then at the feet of my companion, and then without more ado got into a pair of slippers. he wore knickerbockers and stockings, and his legs had a classic refinement that erred, if at all, on the side of over-slenderness. the effect of the enormous grey slippers at the end of these attic legs made me, for one awful moment, feel as though i were going to shriek with laughter. an immense effort strangled the shriek and left me unnaturally solemn.

mrs. harvey-browne had now caught sight of the row of slippers. she put up her eyeglasses and examined them carefully. 'how very german,' she remarked.

'put them on, mother,' said ambrose; 'we are all waiting for you.'

'are they new, brosy?' she asked, hesitating.

'the lady must put on the slippers, or she cannot enter the princely apartments,' said the custodian severely.

'must i really, brosy?' she inquired, looking extremely unhappy. 'i am so terribly afraid of infection, or—or other things. do they think we shall spoil their carpets?'

'the floors are polished, i imagine,' said ambrose, 'and the owner is probably afraid the visitors might slip and hurt themselves.'

'really quite nice and considerate of him—if only they were new.'

ambrose shuffled to the end of the row in his and took up two.' look here, mother,' he said, bringing them to her, 'here's quite a new pair. never been worn before. put them on—they can't possibly do any harm.'

they were not new, but mrs. harvey-browne thought they were and consented to put them on. the instant they were on her feet, stretching out in all their hugeness far beyond the frills of her skirt and obliging her to slide instead of walk, she became gracious. the smile with which she slid past me was amiable as well as deprecatory. they had apparently reduced her at once to the level of other sinful mortals. this effect seemed to me so subtle that again i fell a-pondering.

'frau nieberlein is not with you this morning?' she asked pleasantly, as we shuffled side by side into the princely apartments.

'she is resting. she had rather a bad night.'

'nerves, of course.'

'no, ghosts.'

'ghosts?'

'it's the same thing,' said ambrose. 'is it not, sir?' he asked amiably of the man in spectacles.

'perhaps,' said the man in spectacles cautiously.

'but not a real ghost?' asked mrs. harvey-browne, interested.

'i believe the great point about a ghost is that it never is real.'

'the bishop doesn't believe in them either. but i—i really hardly know. one hears such strange tales. the wife of one of the clergy of our diocese believes quite firmly in them. she is a vegetarian, and of course she eats a great many vegetables, and then she sees ghosts.'

'the chimney-piece,' said the guide, 'is constructed entirely of roman marble.'

'really?' said mrs. harvey-browne, examining it abstractedly through her eyeglasses. 'she declares their vicarage is haunted; and what in the world do you think by? the strangest thing. it is haunted by the ghost of a cat.'

'the statue on the right is by thorwaldsen,' said the guide.

'by the ghost of a cat,' repeated mrs. harvey-browne impressively.

she seemed to expect me to say something, so i said indeed.

'that on the left is by rauch,' said the guide.

'and this cat does not do anything. i mean, it is not prophetic of impending family disaster. it simply walks across a certain room—the drawing-room, i believe—quite like a real cat, and nothing happens.'

'but perhaps it is a real cat?'

'oh no, it is supernatural. no one sees it but herself. it walks quite slowly with its tail up in the air, and once when she went up to it to try to pull its tail so as to convince herself of its existence, she only clutched empty air.'

'the frescoes with which this apartment is adorned are by kolbe and eybel,' said the guide.

'you mean it ran away?'

'no, it walked on quite deliberately. but the tail not being made of human flesh and blood there was naturally nothing to pull.'

'beginning from left to right, we have in the first a representation of the entry of king waldemar i. into rügen,' said the guide.

'but the most extraordinary thing about it happened one day when she put a saucer of cream on the floor for it. she had thought it all over in the night, and had come to the conclusion that as no ghost would lap cream and no real cat be able to help lapping it this would provide her with a decisive proof one way or the other. the cat came, saw the cream, and immediately lapped it up. my friend was so pleased, because of course one likes real cats best——'

'the second represents the introduction of christianity into the island,' said the guide.

'—and when it had done, and the saucer was empty, she went over to it——'

'the third represents the laying of the foundation stone of the church at vilmnitz,' said the guide.

'—and what do you think happened? she walked straight through it.'

'through what?' i asked, profoundly interested. 'the cream, or the cat?'

'ah, that was what was so marvellous. she walked right through the body of the cat. now what had become of the cream?'

i confess this story impressed me more than any ghost story i have ever heard; the disappearance of the cream was so extraordinary.

'and there was nothing—nothing at all left on her dress?' i asked eagerly. 'i mean, after walking through the cat? one would have thought that some, at least, of the cream——'

'not a vestige.'

i stood gazing at the bishop's wife absorbed in reflection. 'how truly strange,' i murmured at length, after having vainly endeavoured to account for the missing cream.

'wasn't it?' said mrs. harvey-browne, much pleased with the effect of her story. indeed the amiability awakened in her bosom by the grey felt slippers had increased rapidly, and the unaccountable conduct of the cream seemed about to cement our friendship when, at this point, she having remarked that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, and i, in order to show my acquaintance with the classics of other countries, having added 'as chaucer justly observes,' to which she said, 'ah, yes—so beautiful, isn't he?' a voice behind us made us both jump; and turning round we beheld, at our elbows, the man in spectacles. ambrose, aided by the guide, was on the other side of the room studying the works of kolbe and eybel, the man in spectacles had evidently heard the whole story of the cat, for this is what he said:—

'the apparition, madam, if it has any meaning at all, which i doubt, being myself inclined to locate its origin in the faulty digestion of the lady, seems to point to a life beyond the grave for the spirits of cats. considered as a proof of such a life for the human soul, which is the one claim to our interest phenomena of the kind can possess, it is, of course, valueless.'

mrs. harvey-browne stared at him a moment through her eyeglasses. 'christians,' she then said distantly, 'need no further proof of that.'

'may i ask, madam, what, precisely, you mean by christians?' inquired the man in spectacles briskly. 'define them, if you please.'

now the bishop's wife was not used to being asked to define things, and disliked it as much as anybody else. besides, though rays of intelligent interest darted through his spectacles, the wearer of them also wore clothes that were not only old but peculiar, and his whole appearance cried aloud of much work and small reward. she therefore looked not only helpless but indignant. 'sir,' she said icily, 'this is not the moment to define christians.'

'i hear the name repeatedly,' said the man in spectacles, bowing but undaunted; 'and looking round me i ask myself where are they?'

'sir,' said mrs. harvey-browne, 'they are in every christian country.'

'and which, pray, madam, would you call the christian countries? i look around me, and i see nations armed to the teeth, ready and sometimes even anxious to fly at each other's throats. their attitude may be patriotic, virile, perhaps necessary, conceivably estimable; but, madam, would you call it christian?'

'sir——' said mrs. harvey-browne.

'having noticed by your accent, madam, that the excellent german you speak was not originally acquired in our fatherland, but must be the result of a commendable diligence practised in the schoolrooms of your youth and native land, and having further observed, from certain unmistakable signs, that the native land in question must be england, it would have a peculiar interest for me to be favoured with the exact meaning the inhabitants of that enlightened country attach to the term. my income having hitherto not been sufficient to enable me to visit its hospitable shores, i hail this opportunity with pleasure of discussing questions that are of importance to us all with one of its, no doubt, most distinguished daughters.'

'sir——' said mrs. harvey-browne.

'at first sight,' went on the man in spectacles, 'one would be disposed to say that a christian is a person who believes in the tenets of the christian faith. but belief, if it is genuine, must necessarily find its practical expression in works. how then, madam, would you account for the fact that when i look round me in the provincial town in which i pursue the honourable calling of a pedagogue, i see numerous christians but no works?'

'sir, i do not account for it,' said mrs. harvey-browne angrily.

'for consider, madam, the lively faith inspired by other creeds. place against this inertia the activity of other believers. observe the dervish, how he dances; observe the fakir, hanging from his hook——'

'i will not, sir,' said mrs. harvey-browne, roused now beyond endurance; 'and i do not know why you should choose this place and time to thrust your opinions on sacred subjects on a stranger and a lady.'

with which she turned her back on him, and shuffled away with all the dignity the felt slippers allowed.

the man in spectacles stood confounded.

'the lady,' i said, desirous of applying balm, 'is the wife of a clergyman'—(heavens, if she had heard me!)—'and is therefore afraid of talking about things that must lead her on to sacred ground. i think you will find the son very intelligent and ready to talk.'

but i regret to say the man in spectacles seemed extremely shy of me; whether it was because the custodian had taken me for his wife, or because i was an apparently unattached female wandering about and drinking coffee by myself contrary to all decent custom, i do not know. anyhow he met my well-meant attempt to explain mrs. harvey-browne to him with suspicion, and murmuring something about the english being indeed very strangely mannered, he edged cautiously away.

we now straggled through the rooms separately,—ambrose in front with the guide, his mother by herself, i by myself, and a good way behind us, the mortified man in spectacles. he made no effort to take my advice and talk to ambrose, but kept carefully as far away from the rest of us as possible; and when we presently found ourselves once more outside the princely apartments, on the opposite side to the door by which we had gone into them, he slid forward, shook off his felt slippers with the finality of one who shakes off dust from his feet, made three rapid bows, one to each of us, and hurried down the stairs. arrived at the bottom we saw him take his stick from the fräulein, shake his head with indignant vigour when she tried to make him take my sunshade too, pull open the heavy door, and almost run through it. he slammed it with an energy that made the jagdschloss tremble.

the fräulein looked first at the slammed door, then at the sunshade, and then up at me. 'quarrelled,' said the fräulein's look as plainly as speech.

ambrose looked at me too, and in his eyes was an interrogation.

mrs. harvey-browne looked at me too, and in her eyes was coldest condemnation. 'is it possible,' said mrs. harvey-browne's eyes, 'that any one can really marry such a person?'

as for me, i walked downstairs, my face bland with innocence and unconcern. 'how delightful,' i said enthusiastically, 'how truly delightful these walls look, with all the antlers and things on them.'

'very,' said ambrose.

mrs. harvey-browne was silent. probably she had resolved never to speak to me again; but when we were at the bottom, and ambrose was bestowing fees on the fräulein and the custodian, she said, 'i did not know your husband was travelling with you.'

'my husband?' i repeated inquiringly. 'but he isn't. he's at home. minding, i hope, my neglected children.'

'at home? then who—then whose husband was that?'

'was what?' i asked, following her eyes which were fixed on the door so lately slammed.

'why, that man in spectacles?'

'really, how can i tell? perhaps nobody's. certainly not mine.'

mrs. harvey-browne stared at me in immense surprise. 'how very extraordinary,' she said.