behaving so strangely, but I was very young, and she was an old woman,—­one couldn’t call her that, though,—­and she had taken this way of renewing her acquaintance with me.  Renewing?  But I didn’t remember to have ever met her before, I said.  “Oh, yes, we have met before, but you were a little child, a baby in fact, and there’s no wonder you don’t remember me?” And then she said, “I knew your mother very well.”

Nancy leaned forward, her lips apart.

’Queer, wasn’t it?  Then she went on to say that her name was Mrs. Damerel; had I ever heard it?  No, I couldn’t remember the name at all.  She was a widow, she said, and had lived mostly abroad for a great many years; now she was come back to settle in England.  She hadn’t a house of her own yet, but lived at a boarding-house; she didn’t know whether to take a house in London, or somewhere just out in the country.  Then she began to ask about father, and about you; and it seemed to amuse her when I looked puzzled.  She’s a jolly sort of person, always laughing.’

‘Did she say anything more about our mother?’

’I’ll tell you about that presently.  We got to the house, and went in, and she took me upstairs to her own private sitting-room, where the table was laid for two.  She said that she usually had her meals with the other people, but it would be better for us to be alone, so that we could talk.’

‘How did she know where to find you?’ Nancy inquired.

’Of course I wondered about that, but I didn’t like to ask.  Well, she went away for a few minutes, and then we had lunch.  Everything was A-1 of course; first-rate wines to choose from, and a rattling good cigar afterwards—­for me, I mean.  She brought out a box; said they were her husband’s, and had a laugh about it.’

‘How long has she been a widow?’ asked Nancy.

’I don’t know.  She didn’t wear colours, I noticed; perhaps it was a fashionable sort of mourning.  We talked about all sorts of things; I soon made myself quite at home.  And at last she began to explain.  She was a friend of mother’s, years and years ago, and father was the cause of their parting, a quarrel about something, she didn’t say exactly what.  And it had suddenly struck her that she would like to know how we were getting on.  Then she asked me to promise that I would tell no one.’

‘She knew about mother’s death, I suppose?’

’Oh yes, she knew about that.  It happened not very long after the affair that parted them.  She asked a good many questions about you.  And she wanted to know how father had got on in his business.’

‘What did you say?’

’Oh, I told her I really didn’t know much about it, and she laughed at that.’

‘How long did you stay there?’

’Till about four.  But there’s something else.  Before I went away she gave me an invitation for next Saturday.  She wants me to meet her at Portland Road Station, and go out to Richmond, and have dinner there.’