She clasped and unclasped her little hands nervously—­she was shy of raising her eyes to his face.

“It is wonderful!” she murmured—­“I can hardly believe it possible that I should meet here in London a real Jocelyn!—­one of the family of the Sieur Amadis!”

“Does it seem strange?” He laughed.  “Oh no!  Nothing is strange in this queer little world!  But I don’t quite know what the exact connection is between me and your knight—­it’s too difficult for me to grasp!  I suppose I’m a sort of great-great-great-grand-nephew!  However, nothing can alter the fact that I am also an Amadis de Jocelyn!”

She glanced up at him quickly.

“You are, indeed!” she said.  “It is you who ought to be the master of Briar Farm!”

“Ought I?” He was amused at her earnestness.  “Why?”

“Because there is no direct heir now to the Sieur Amadis!” she answered, almost sadly.  “His last descendant is dead.  His name was Hugo—­Hugo Jocelyn—­and he was a farmer, and he left all he had to his nephew, the only child of his sister who died before him.  The nephew is very good, and clever, too,—­he was educated at Oxford, —­but he is not an actually lineal descendant.”

He laughed again, this time quite heartily, at the serious expression of her face.

“That’s very terrible!” he said.  “I don’t know when I’ve heard anything so lamentable!  And I’m afraid I can’t put matters right!  I should never do for a farmer—­I’m a painter.  I had better go down and see this famous old place, and the tomb of my ever so great-great-grand-uncle!  I could make a picture of it—­I ought to do that, as it belonged to the family of my ancestors.  Will you take me?”

She gave him a little fleeting, reluctant smile.

“You are making fun of it all,” she said.  “That is not wise of you!  You should not laugh at grave and noble things.”

He was charmed with her quaintness.

“Was he grave and noble?—­Amadis, I mean?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling with a kind of mirthful ardour.  “You are sure?  Well, all honour to him!  And to you—­for believing in him!  I hope you’ll consider me kindly for his sake!  Will you?”

A quick blush suffused her cheeks.

“Of course!—­I must do so!” she answered, simply.  “I owe him so much—­” then, fearful of betraying her secret of literary authorship, she hesitated—­“I mean—­he taught me all I know.  I studied all his old books....”

Just then their cheery host came up.

“Well!  Have you made friends?  Ah!—­I see you have!  Mutual intelligence, mutual comprehension!  Jocelyn, will you bring Miss Innocent in to supper?—­I leave her in your charge.”

“Miss Innocent?” repeated Jocelyn, doubtful as to whether this was said by way of a joke or not.

“Yes—­some people call her Ena—­but her real name is Innocent.  Isn’t it, little lady?”

She smiled and coloured.  Jocelyn looked at her with a curious intentness.