Then the portress came forth from her box, and, slightly bent, sped actively across the hall, smiling pleasantly at the guest as she passed him, and disappeared up the stairs.  The mistress was alone in the retreat.  Peel-Swynnerton jumped up brusquely, dropping the paper with a rustle, and approached her.

“Excuse me,” he said deferentially.  “Have any letters come for me to-night?”

He knew that the arrival of letters for him was impossible, since nobody knew his address.

“What name?” The question was coldly polite, and the questioner looked him full in the face.  Undoubtedly she was a handsome woman.  Her hair was greying at the temples, and the skin was withered and crossed with lines.  But she was handsome.  She was one of those women of whom to their last on earth the stranger will say:  “When she was young she must have been worth looking at!”—­with a little transient regret that beautiful young women cannot remain for ever young.  Her voice was firm and even, sweet in tone, and yet morally harsh from incessant traffic—­with all varieties of human nature.  Her eyes were the impartial eyes of one who is always judging.  And evidently she was a proud, even a haughty creature, with her careful, controlled politeness.  Evidently she considered herself superior to no matter what guest.  Her eyes announced that she had lived and learnt, that she knew more about life than any one whom she was likely to meet, and that having pre-eminently succeeded in life, she had tremendous confidence in herself.  The proof of her success was the unique Frensham’s.  A consciousness of the uniqueness of Frensham’s was also in those eyes.  Theoretically Matthew Peel-Swynnerton’s mental attitude towards lodging-house keepers was condescending, but here it was not condescending.  It had the real respectfulness of a man who for the moment at any rate is impressed beyond his calculations.  His glance fell as he said—­

“Peel-Swynnerton.”  Then he looked up again.

He said the words awkwardly, and rather fearfully, as if aware that he was playing with fire.  If this Mrs. Scales was the long-vanished aunt of his friend, Cyril Povey, she must know those two names, locally so famous.  Did she start?  Did she show a sign of being perturbed?  At first he thought he detected a symptom of emotion, but in an instant he was sure that he had detected nothing of the sort, and that it was silly to suppose that he was treading on the edge of a romance.  Then she turned towards the letter-rack at her side, and he saw her face in profile.  It bore a sudden and astonishing likeness to the profile of Cyril Povey; a resemblance unmistakable and finally decisive.  The nose, and the curve of the upper lip were absolutely Cyril’s.  Matthew Peel-Swynnerton felt very queer.  He felt like a criminal in peril of being caught in the act, and he could not understand why he should feel so.  The landlady looked in the ‘P’ pigeon-hole, and in the ‘S’ pigeon-hole.