“Why, my dear, my dear, he was a great friend of mine!” exclaimed the old lady, raising both her hands.  “I knew him twenty years ago and more, and was fonder of him than I ever let out to anybody.  Of course it doesn’t matter a bit now, but I always told him that if I’d been a single woman, and a quarter of a century younger, I’d have married him out of hand.  That was a standing joke between us, for I was old enough to be his mother, and he was already engaged—­ah, and a sweet pretty creature she was, too, and I don’t wonder he fell in love with her.  So you are Geoffrey’s son!  I can scarcely believe it, even now.  But it’s your mother you take after, not Geoffrey.  She was a Miss—­Miss——­”

“Her maiden name was Waterfield,” interpolated Austin.

“So it was, so it was!” assented the old lady, eagerly.  “What a memory you’ve got, to be sure.  One of Sir Philip Waterfield’s daughters, down in Leicestershire.  And her other name was Dorothea.  Why, I remember it all now as though it had happened yesterday.  Your father made me his confidante all through; such a state as he was in you never saw, wondering whether she’d have him, never able to screw up his courage to ask her, now all down in the dumps and the next day halfway up to the moon.  Well, of course they were married at last, and then I somehow lost sight of them.  They went abroad, I think, and when they came back they settled in some place on the other side of nowhere and I never saw them again.  And you are their son Austin!”

Interested as he was in these reminiscences, Austin could not help being struck with the wonderful grace of this curious old lady’s gestures.  In spite of her skimpy dress and antiquated bonnet, she was, he thought, the most exquisitely-bred old woman he had ever seen.  Every movement was a charm, and he watched her, as she spoke, with growing fascination and delight.

“It is quite marvellous to think you knew my parents,” he said in reply, “while I have no recollection of either of them.  My mother died when I was born, and my father a year or two later.  What was my mother like?  Did you know her well?”

“She was a delicate-looking creature, with a pale face and dark-grey eyes,” answered the old lady, “and you put me in mind of her very strongly.  I didn’t know her very well, but I remember your father bringing her to call on me when they were first engaged, and a wonderfully handsome couple they were.  No doubt they were very happy, but their lives were cut short, as so often happens, leaving a lot of stupid people alive that the world could well dispense with.  But I see you’ve lost one of your legs!  How did that come about, I should like to know?”

“Oh—­something went wrong with the bone, and it had to be cut off,” said Austin, rather vaguely.

“Dear, dear, what a pity,” was the old lady’s comment.  “And are you very sorry for yourself?”

“Not in the least,” said Austin, smiling brightly.  “I’ve got quite fond of my new one.”