Sir Wilfrid hurried his meal as much as Lady Henry—­who, as it turned out, was not at all minded to starve him—­would allow.  She meanwhile talked politics and gossip to him, with her old, caustic force, nibbling a dry biscuit at intervals and sipping a cup of coffee.  She was a wilful, characteristic figure as she sat there, beneath her own portrait as a bride, which hung on the wall behind her.  The portrait represented a very young woman, with plentiful brown hair gathered into a knot on the top of her head, a high waist, a blue waist-ribbon, and inflated sleeves.  Handsome, imperious, the corners of the mouth well down, the look straight and daring—­the Lady Henry of the picture, a bride of nineteen, was already formidable.  And the old woman sitting beneath it, with the strong, white hair, which the ample cap found some difficulty even now in taming and confining, the droop of the mouth accentuated, the nose more masterful, the double chin grown evident, the light of the eyes gone out, breathed pride and will from every feature of her still handsome face, pride of race and pride of intellect, combined with a hundred other subtler and smaller prides that only an intimate knowledge of her could detect.  The brow and eyes, so beautiful in the picture, were, however, still agreeable in the living woman; if generosity lingered anywhere, it was in them.

The door was hardly closed upon the servants when she bent forward.

“Well, have you guessed?”

Sir Wilfrid looked at her thoughtfully as he stirred the sugar in his coffee.

“I think so,” he said.  “She is Lady Rose Delaney’s daughter.”

Lady Henry gave a sudden laugh.

“I hardly expected you to guess!  What helped you?”

“First your own hints.  Then the strange feeling I had that I had seen the face, or some face just like it, before.  And, lastly, at the Foreign Office I caught sight, for a moment, of Lord Lackington.  That finished it.”

“Ah!” said Lady Henry, with a nod.  “Yes, that likeness is extraordinary.  Isn’t it amazing that that foolish old man has never perceived it?”

“He knows nothing?”

“Oh, nothing!  Nobody does.  However, that’ll do presently.  But Lord Lackington comes here, mumbles about his music and his water-colors, and his flirtations—­seventy-four, if you please, last birthday!—­talks about himself endlessly to Julie or to me—­whoever comes handy—­and never has an inkling, an idea.”

“And she?”

“Oh, she knows.  I should rather think she does.”  And Lady Henry pushed away her coffee-cup with the ill-suppressed vehemence which any mention of her companion seemed to produce in her.  “Well, now, I suppose you’d like to hear the story.”

“Wait a minute.  It’ll surprise you to hear that I not only knew this lady’s mother and father, but that I’ve seen her, herself, before.”

“You?” Lady Henry looked incredulous.