Lady Henry did not smile.  She laid one of her wrinkled hands upon his arm.

“Is there any one else within hearing?” she said, in a quick undertone.  Sir Wilfrid was touched by the vague helplessness of her gesture, as she looked round her.

“No one—­we are quite alone.”

“They are not here for me—­those people,” she said, quivering, with a motion of her hand towards the large drawing-room.

“My dear friend, what do you mean?”

“They are here—­come closer, I don’t want to be overheard—­for a woman—­whom I took in, in a moment of lunacy—­who is now robbing me of my best friends and supplanting me in my own house.”

The pallor of the old face had lost all its waxen dignity.  The lowered voice hissed in his ear.  Sir Wilfrid, startled and repelled, hesitated for his reply.  Meanwhile, Lady Henry, who could not see it, seemed at once to divine the change in his expression.

“Oh, I suppose you think I’m mad,” she said, impatiently, “or ridiculous.  Well, see for yourself, judge for yourself.  In fact, I have been looking, hungering, for your return.  You have helped me through emergencies before now.  And I am in that state at present that I trust no one, talk to no one, except of banalites.  But I should be greatly obliged if you would come and listen to me, and, what is more, advise me some day.”

“Most gladly,” said Sir Wilfrid, embarrassed; then, after a pause, “Who is this lady I find installed here?”

Lady Henry hesitated, then shut her strong mouth on the temptation to speak.

“It is not a story for to-night,” she said; “and it would upset me.  But, when you first saw her, how did she strike you?”

“I saw at once,” said her companion after a pause, “that you had caught a personality.”

“A personality!” Lady Henry gave an angry laugh.  “That’s one way of putting it.  But physically—­did she remind you of no one?”

Sir Wilfrid pondered a moment.

“Yes.  Her face haunted me, when I first saw it.  But—­no; no, I can’t put any names.”

Lady Henry gave a little snort of disappointment.

“Well, think.  You knew her mother quite well.  You have known her grandfather all your life.  If you’re going on to the Foreign Office, as I suppose you are, you’ll probably see him to-night.  She is uncannily like him.  As to her father, I don’t know—­but he was a rolling-stone of a creature; you very likely came across him.”

“I knew her mother and her father?” said Sir Wilfrid, astonished and pondering.

“They had no right to be her mother and her father,” said Lady Henry, with grimness.

“Ah!  So if one does guess—­”

“You’ll please hold your tongue.”

“But at present I’m completely mystified,” said Sir Wilfrid.

“Perhaps it’ll come to you later.  You’ve a good memory generally for such things.  Anyway, I can’t tell you anything now.  But when’ll you come again?  To-morrow—­luncheon?  I really want you.”