“I am quite sure that, good or bad, the Professor will have his own way.  It is not his happiness I am thinking of so much as yours.”

“Really.  Here is the tea.  Put the table near the fire, Jane, between Miss Kendal and myself.  Thank you.  The muffins on the fender.  Thank you.  No, there is nothing more.  Close the door when you go out.”

The tea equippage having been arranged, Mrs. Jasher poured out a cup of Souchong, and handed it to her guest, resuming the subject of her proposed marriage meanwhile.

“I don’t see why you should be anxious about me, dear.  I am quite able to look after myself.  And the Professor seems to be kind-hearted enough.”

“Oh, he is kind-hearted when he gets his own way.  Give him his hobby and he will never bother you.  But he won’t live in London, and he will not consent to this salon you wish to institute.”

“Why not?  It means fame to him.  I shall gather round me all the scientists of London and make my house a centre of interest.  The Professor can stop in his laboratory if he likes.  As his wife, I can do all that is necessary.  Well, my dear”—­Mrs. Jasher took a cup of tea—­“we need not talk the subject threadbare.  You do not disapprove of my marriage with your step-father, so you can leave the rest to me.  If you can give me a hint of how to proceed to bring about this marriage, of course I am not above taking it.”

Lucy glanced at the tea-gown.

“As you will have to tell the Professor that your brother is dead to account for possessing the money,” she said pointedly, “I should advise you to go into mourning.  Professor Braddock will be shocked otherwise.”

“Dear me, what a tender heart he must have!” said Mrs. Jasher flippantly.  “My brother was very little to me, poor man, so he cannot be anything to the Professor.  However, I shall adopt your advice, and, after all, black suits me very well.  There”—­she swept her hands across the tea-table—­“that is settled.  Now about yourself?”

“Archie and I marry in the springtime.”

“And your other admirer, who has come back?”

“Sir Frank Random?” said Lucy, coloring.

“Of course.  He called to see me a day or so ago, and seems less broken-hearted than he should be.”

Lucy nodded and colored still deeper.

“I suppose some other woman has consoled him.”

“Of course.  Catch a modern man wearing the willow for any girl, however dear.  Are you angry?”

“Oh no, no.”

“Oh yes, yes, I think,” said the widow, laughing, “else you are no woman, my dear.  I know I should be angry to see a man get over his rejection so rapidly.”

“Who is she?” asked Lucy abruptly.

“Donna Inez de Gayangos.”

“A Spaniard?”

“I believe so—­a colonial Spaniard, at least—­from Lima.  Her father, Don Pedro de Gayangos, met Sir Frank in Genoa by chance.”