‘I promised to say nothing about it, but there’s no harm in telling you, you know. You remember I was away last Saturday afternoon? Well, just when it was time to leave the office, that day, the porter came to say that a lady wished to see me--a lady in a carriage outside. Of course I couldn’t make it out at all, but I went down as quickly as possible, and saw the carriage waiting there,--a brougham,--and marched up to the door. Inside there was a lady--a great swell, smiling at me as if we were friends. I took off my hat, and said that I was Mr. Lord. “Yes,” she said, “I see you are;” and she asked if I could spare her an hour or two, as she wished to speak to me of something important. Well, of course I could only say that I had nothing particular to do,--that I was just going home. “Then will you do me the pleasure,” she said, “to come and have lunch with me? I live in Weymouth Street, Portland Place.” The young man paused to watch the effect of his narrative, especially of the last words. Nancy returned his gaze with frank astonishment. ‘What sort of lady was it?’ she asked. ‘Oh, a great swell. Somebody in the best society--you could see that at once.’ ‘But how old?’ ‘Well, I couldn’t tell exactly; about forty, I should think.’ ‘Oh!--Go on.’ ‘One couldn’t refuse, you know; I was only too glad to go to a house in the West End. She opened the carriage-door from the inside, and I got in, and off we drove. I felt awkward, of course, but after all I was decently dressed, and I suppose I can behave like a gentleman, and--well, she sat looking at me and smiling, and I could only smile back. Then she said she must apologise for 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?’