“And how long are you staying at Cleeve?” asked St Aubyn, supplying her with sandwiches.

“I’ve been there nearly a week already, and the trouble lasts three days more,” replied his aunt, as she munched away.  “The Duke’s a fool, and she’s worse.  Haven’t the ghost of an idea, either of ’em, how to mix people, you know.  And what with their horrible charades, and their nonsensical round games, and their everlasting bridge, I’m pretty well at the end of my tether.  Never was among such a beef-witted set of addlepates since I was born.  The only man among ’em who isn’t a hopeless booby’s a Socialist, and he’s been twice in gaol for inciting honest folks not to pay their taxes.  Oh, they’re a precious lot, I promise you.  I don’t know what we’re coming to, I’m sure.”

“But it’s so easy not to do things,” observed St Aubyn, lazily.  “Why on earth do you go there?  I wouldn’t, I know that.”

“Why does anybody do anything?” retorted the old lady.  “We can’t all stay at home and write books that nobody reads, as you do.”

Austin looked up enquiringly.  He had no idea that St Aubyn was an author, and said so.

“What, you didn’t know that Roger wrote books?” said the old lady, turning to him.  “Oh yes, he does, my dear, and very fine books too—­only they’re miles above the comprehension of stupid old women like me.  Probably you’ve not a notion what a learned person he really is.  I don’t even know the names of the things he writes of.”

“And you never told me!” said Austin to his friend.  “But you’ll have to lend me some of your books now, you know.  I’m dying to know what they’re all about.”

“They’re chiefly about antiquities,” responded St Aubyn; “early Peruvian, Mexican, Egyptian, and so on.  You’re perfectly welcome to read them all if you care to.  They’re not at all deep, whatever my aunt may say.”

During this brief interchange of remarks, Lady Merthyr Tydvil had been gazing rather fixedly at Austin, with her head on one side like an enquiring old bird, and a puzzled expression on her face.

“The most curious likeness!” she exclaimed.  “Now, how is it that your face seems so familiar to me, I wonder?  I’ve certainly never seen you anywhere before, and yet—­and yet—­who is it you remind me of, for goodness’ sake?”

“I wish I could tell you,” replied Austin, laughing.  “Likenesses are often quite accidental, and it may be——­”

“Stuff and nonsense, my dear,” interrupted the old lady, brusquely.  “There’s nothing accidental about this.  You’re the living image of somebody, but who it is I can’t for the life of me imagine.  What do you say your name is?”

“My surname, you mean?—­Trevor,” replied Austin, beginning to be rather interested.

“Trevor!” cried Lady Merthyr Tydvil, her voice rising almost to a squeak.  “No relation to Geoffrey Trevor who was in the 16th Lancers?”

“He was my father,” said Austin, much surprised.