“I am glad I scratched your back first,” she said.  “And as for the cricket, it’s quite true.  I taught him to keep a straight bat myself.”

Meanwhile, Dick Linforth was walking across the floor of the ball-room, quite unconscious of the two who talked of him.  He was not, indeed, looking about him at all.  It seemed to both his mother and Sir John, as they watched him steadily moving in and out amongst the throng—­for it was the height of the season, and Lady Marfield’s big drawing-room in Chesterfield Gardens was crowded—­that he was making his way to a definite spot, as though just at this moment he had a definite appointment.

“He changed his mind at the last moment,” said Sir John with a laugh, which gave to him the look of a boy.  “Let us see who it is that has brought him up from Chatham to London at the last moment!”

“Would it be fair?” asked Mrs. Linforth reluctantly.  She was, indeed, no less curious upon the point than her companion, and while she asked the question, her eyes followed her son’s movements.  He was tall, and though he moved quickly and easily, it was possible to keep him in view.

A gap in the crowd opened before them, making a lane—­and at the end of the lane they saw Linforth approach a lady and receive the welcome of her smile.  For a moment the gap remained open, and then the bright frocks and black coats swept across the space.  But both had seen, and Mrs. Linforth, in addition, was aware of a barely perceptible start made by Sir John at her side.

She looked at him sharply.  His face had grown grave.

“You know her?” asked Mrs. Linforth.  There was anxiety in her voice.  There was also a note of jealousy.

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

“Mrs. Oliver.  Violet Oliver.”

“Married!”

“A widow.  I introduced her to your son at La Grave in the Dauphine country last summer.  Our motor-car had broken down.  We all stayed for a couple of days together in the same hotel.  Mrs. Oliver is a friend of my daughter’s.  Phyllis admires her very much, and in most instances I am prepared to trust Phyllis’ instincts.”

“But not in this instance,” said Mrs. Linforth quietly.  She had been quick to note a very slight embarrassment in Sir John Casson’s manner.

“I don’t say that,” he replied quickly—­a little too quickly.

“Will you find me a chair?” said Mrs. Linforth, looking about her.  “There are two over here.”  She led the way to the chairs which were placed in a nook of the room not very far from the door by which Linforth had entered.  She took her seat, and when Sir John had seated himself beside her, she said: 

“Please tell me what you know of her.”

Sir John spread out his hands in protest.

“Certainly, I will.  But there is nothing to her discredit, so far as I know, Mrs. Linforth—­nothing at all.  Beyond that she is beautiful—­really beautiful, as few women are.  That, no doubt, will be looked upon as a crime by many, though you and I will not be of that number.”