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is no good. But if Samuel Barmby will go with you, I make no objection.’

      A movement of annoyance was Nancy’s first reply. She drummed with her fingers on the table, looking fixedly before her.

      ‘I certainly can’t ask Mr. Barmby to come with us,’ she said, with an effort at self-control.

      ‘Well, you needn’t. I’ll speak about it myself.’

      He waited, and again it chanced that their eyes met. Nancy, on the point of speaking, checked herself. A full minute passed, and Stephen stood waiting patiently.

      ‘If you insist upon it,’ said Nancy, rising from her chair, ‘we will take Mr. Barmby with us.’

      Without comment, Mr. Lord left the room, and his own door closed rather loudly behind him.

      Not long afterwards Nancy heard a new foot in the passage, and her brother made his appearance. Horace had good looks, but his face showed already some of the unpleasant characteristics which time had developed on that of Stephen Lord, and from which the daughter was entirely free; one judged him slow of intellect and weakly self-willed. His hair was of pale chestnut, the silky pencillings of his moustache considerably darker. His cheek, delicately pink and easily changing to a warmer hue, his bright-coloured lips, and the limpid glistening of his eyes, showed him of frail constitution; he was very slim, and narrow across the shoulders. The fashion of his attire tended to a dandiacal extreme—modish silk hat, lavender necktie, white waistcoat, gaiters over his patent-leather shoes, gloves crushed together in one hand, and in the other a bamboo cane. For the last year or two he had been progressing in this direction, despite his father’s scornful remarks and his sister’s good-natured mockery.

      ‘Father in yet?’ he asked at the door of the dining-room, in subdued voice.

      Nancy nodded, and the young man withdrew to lay aside his outdoor equipments.

      ‘What sort of temper?’ was his question when he returned.

      ‘Pretty good—until I spoilt it.’

      Horace exhibited a pettish annoyance.

      ‘What on earth did you do that for? I want to have a talk with him to-night.’

      ‘About what?’

      ‘Oh, never mind; I’ll tell you after.’

      Both kept their voices low, as if afraid of being overheard in the next room. Horace began to nibble at a biscuit; the hour of his return made it unnecessary for him, as a rule, to take anything before dinner, but at present he seemed in a nervous condition, and acted mechanically.

      ‘Come out into the garden, will you?’ he said, after receiving a brief explanation of what had passed between Nancy and her father. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’

      His sister carelessly assented, and with heads uncovered they went through the house into the open air. The garden was but a strip of ground, bounded by walls of four feet high; in the midst stood a laburnum, now heavy with golden bloom, and at the end grew a holly-bush, flanked with laurels; a border flower-bed displayed Stephen Lord’s taste and industry. Nancy seated herself on a rustic bench in the shadow of the laburnum, and Horace stood before her, one of the branches in his hand.

      ‘I promised Fanny to take her to-morrow night,’ he began awkwardly.

      ‘Oh, you have?’

      ‘And we’re going together in the morning, you know.’

      ‘I know now. I didn’t before,’ Nancy replied.

      ‘Of course we can make a party in the evening.’

      ‘Of course.’

      Horace looked up at the ugly house-backs, and hesitated before proceeding.

      ‘That isn’t what I wanted to talk about,’ he said at length. ‘A very queer thing has happened, a thing I can’t make out at all.’

      The listener looked her curiosity.

      ‘I promised to say nothing about it, but there’s no harm in telling you, you know. You remember I was away last Saturday afternoon? Well, just when it was time to leave the office, that day, the porter came to say that a lady wished to see me—a lady in a carriage outside. Of course I couldn’t make it out at all, but I went down as quickly as possible, and saw the carriage waiting there—a brougham—and marched up to the door. Inside there was a lady—a great swell, smiling at me as if we were friends. I took off my hat, and said that I was Mr. Lord. “Yes,” she said, “I see you are;” and she asked if I could spare her an hour or two, as she wished to speak to me of something important. Well, of course I could only say that I had nothing particular to do—that I was just going home. “Then will you do me the pleasure,” she said, “to come and have lunch with me? I live in Weymouth Street, Portland Place.”

      The young man paused to watch the effect of his narrative, especially of the last words. Nancy returned his gaze with frank astonishment.

      ‘What sort of lady was it?’ she asked.

      ‘Oh, a great swell. Somebody in the best society—you could see that at once.’

      ‘But how old?’

      ‘Well, I couldn’t tell exactly; about forty, I should think.’

      ‘Oh!—Go on.’

      ‘One couldn’t refuse, you know; I was only too glad to go to a house in the West End. She opened the carriage-door from the inside, and I got in, and off we drove. I felt awkward, of course, but after all I was decently dressed, and I suppose I can behave like a gentleman, and—well, she sat looking at me and smiling, and I could only smile back. Then she said she must apologise for behaving so strangely, but I was very young, and she was an old woman—one couldn’t call her that, though—and she had taken this way of renewing her acquaintance with me. Renewing? But I didn’t remember to have ever met her before, I said. “Oh, yes, we have met before, but you were a little child, a baby in fact, and there’s no wonder you don’t remember me?” And then she said, “I knew your mother very well.”

      Nancy leaned forward, her lips apart.

      ‘Queer, wasn’t it? Then she went on to say that her name was Mrs. Damerel; had I ever heard it? No, I couldn’t remember the name at all. She was a widow, she said, and had lived mostly abroad for a great many years; now she was come back to settle in England. She hadn’t a house of her own yet, but lived at a boarding-house; she didn’t know whether to take a house in London, or somewhere just out in the country. Then she began to ask about father, and about you; and it seemed to amuse her when I looked puzzled. She’s a jolly sort of person, always laughing.’

      ‘Did she say anything more about our mother?’

      ‘I’ll tell you about that presently. We got to the house, and went in, and she took me upstairs to her own private sitting-room, where the table was laid for two. She said that she usually had her meals with the other people, but it would be better for us to be alone, so that we could talk.’

      ‘How did she know where to find you?’ Nancy inquired.

      ‘Of course I wondered about that, but I didn’t like to ask. Well, she went away for a few minutes, and then we had lunch. Everything was A-1 of course; first-rate wines to choose from, and a rattling good cigar afterwards—for me, I mean. She brought out a box; said they were her husband’s, and had a laugh about it.’

      ‘How long has she been a widow?’ asked Nancy.

      ‘I don’t know. She didn’t wear colours, I noticed; perhaps it was a fashionable sort of mourning. We talked about all sorts of things; I soon made myself quite at home. And at last she began to explain. She was a friend of mother’s, years and years ago, and father was the cause of their parting, a quarrel about something, she didn’t say exactly what. And it had suddenly struck her that she would like to know how we

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