The woman shook her head and her eyes sparkled like diamonds. "Ah, but it is not so. Owain of Rhaiadr was what your father said. I remember we were sitting on the terrace of the hotel, and feeling ill, he sought my sympathy. Ah, my friend, and more than my sympathy. He wished to marry me." "Marry you!" Hench stared at the withered old woman in amazement. "Why not? I was a handsome young widow in those days and had some money. Afterwards I lost it, being unlucky at cards." "Well, let us hope that to make up for your loss you were lucky in love," said Spruce affably. "No! I did not wish to marry again, as I was devoted to the memory of my English husband. But I liked your father, Mr. Hench, even though I refused to become his wife. He was not rich, you understand, so it was useless for me to marry a poor man. But I liked him because he was well-bred and sympathetic in many ways. How it all comes back to me. I told him of my daughter, who was with her nurse in the gardens below the terrace, and he informed me that he had a son of four or five, who was in England being looked after by strangers." "By strangers," echoed Hench bitterly; "that is true. All my life I have had to do with strangers." "Ah, but, my friend, it was not the fault of your good father," said Madame in a hurried tone. "His young wife--your mother--died early, and it was impossible for your father to travel about the Continent with a baby--as you were." "A baby of over four years old could have travelled well enough," said Hench in a sombre tone; "but my father never cared about me over-much. He----" here the young man checked himself, as he did not wish to discuss his father in the presence of Spruce, although he might have done so with Madame Alpenny, since he desired to marry her daughter. After a pause he continued: "Well, did my father tell you his family history?" It was quite one minute before the old lady answered this question. She reflected deeply, with her eyes searching his handsome face, then shook her head sadly. "No! We were not so confidential as that. We met several times again, but as I refused to marry him, your father went away to Paris. I never saw him again, but the memory of his eyes remained, and those same eyes you now use to look at me suggested my old romance." "They would not have done so but for the magic word Rhaiadr," said Spruce in brisk tones. "Well, Hench, you see that there is a mystery." "There is not," declared the young man sharply and much vexed. "Your mystery resolves itself into what Madame here calls her romance. My father asked her to marry him and she refused. Very wisely, I think," he added, as if to himself--"she would never have been happy." Madame overheard him, shrugged her shoulders, and rose, looking more shapeless in figure and more untidy in dress than ever. "In any case, I have never been happy," she said sadly, "so it does not matter. But I am now inclined to consider your proposal to pay attentions to Zara."