diaphanous material, wholly unadorned save by a small posy of natural roses at her bosom,—­and as she stood a little apart from the throng, several artists noticed the grace of her personality—­ one especially, a rather handsome man of middle age, who gazed at her observantly and critically with a frank openness which, though bold, was scarcely rude.  She caught the straight light of his keen blue eyes—­and a thrill ran through her whole being, as though she had been suddenly influenced by a magnetic current—­then she flushed deeply as she fancied she saw him smile.  For the first time in her life she found pleasure in the fact that a man had looked at her with plainly evinced admiration in his fleeting glance,—­and she watched him talking to several people who all seemed delighted and flattered by his notice—­then he disappeared.  Later on in the evening she asked her host who he was.  The famous R.A. considered for a moment.

“Do you mean a man with rough dark hair and a youngish face?—­ rather good-looking in an eccentric sort of way?”

Innocent nodded eagerly.

“Yes!  And he had blue eyes.”

“Had he, really!” And the great artist smiled.  “Well, I’m sure he would be flattered at your close observation of him!  I think I know him,—­that is, I know him as much as he will let anybody know him—­he is a curious fellow, but a magnificent painter—­a real genius!  He’s half French by descent, and his name is Jocelyn,—­ Amadis de Jocelyn.”

For a moment the room went round in a giddy whirl of colour before her eyes,—­she could not credit her own hearing.  Amadis de Jocelyn!—­the name of her old stone Knight of France, on his tomb at Briar Farm, with his motto—­“Mon coeur me soutien!”

“Amadis de Jocelyn!” she repeated, falteringly ...  “Are you sure? ...  I mean ... is that his name really? ... it’s so unusual... so curious...”

“Yes—­it is curious”—­agreed her host—­“but it’s quite a good old French name, belonging to a good old French family.  The Jocelyns bore arms for the Duc d’Anjou in the reign of Queen Elizabeth—­and this man is a sort of last descendant, very proud of his ancestry.  I’ll bring him along and introduce him to you if you’ll allow me.”

Innocent murmured something—­she scarcely knew what,—­and in a few minutes found herself giving the conventional bow in response to the formal words—­“Miss Armitage, Mr. de Jocelyn”—­and looking straight up at the blue eyes that a short while since had flashed an almost compelling glance into her own.  A strange sense of familiarity and recognition moved her; something of the expression of her “Dad” was in the face of this other Jocelyn of whom she knew nothing,—­and her heart beat so quickly that she could scarcely speak in answer when he addressed her, as he did in a somewhat abrupt manner.

“Are you an art student?”

She smiled a little.

“Oh no!  I am—­nothing! ...  I love pictures of course—­”