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 the great kitchen, with its white wainscot, its blue plaster walls, its range, its tubs for laundry, its white enamelled sink, its white tables. The floor was the colour of the natural wood, unpolished and unpainted, but scoured almost white.

Chop some ice, Gareth. I'll show you. She led him to the refrigerator on the back porch. Then she searched for lemons and sugar, the squeezer. Soon she was dividing lemons and pressing the juice into a pitcher. Gareth imported two lumps of ice and washed them in the sink.

The Countess began to laugh. If I could have imagined six months ago that I would be back in the kitchen of my old home squeezing lemons with a boy whom I've just met!

Gareth was silent.

I love lemonade, she went on. I hadn't drunk any in years before I came here.

So do I, he responded.

O, we'll make lots of it. . . often. There! She stirred in the sugar and, holding the pitcher under the faucet, filled it with water. Then, discovering a tray and two glasses in a cupboard, she set the pitcher on the tray and was about to lead the way back to the porch when she hesitated.

Do you speak German? she queried suddenly.

No, I am ashamed to say. I know a few words, and a few words of French. The language teachers here are so bad. I want to learn languages.

You will, the Countess said. You are the kind