'My sight,' said Miss Sinnet precisely, 'is not so good as I
might wish; though better perhaps than I might have hoped; I fear
I am not much wiser; your face is still unfamiliar to me.'

'It is not unfamiliar to me,' said Lawford. Whose trickery was
this? he thought, putting such affected stuff into his mouth.

A faint lightening of pity came into the silvery and scrupulous
countenance. 'Ah, dear me, yes,' she said courteously.

Lawford rested a lean hand on the seat. 'And have you,' he asked,
'not the least recollection in the world of my face?'

'Now really,' she said, smiling blandly, 'is that quite fair?
Think of all the scores and scores of faces in seventy long
years; and how very treacherous memory is. You shall do me the
service of REMINDING me of one whose name has for the moment
escaped me.'

'I am the son of a very old friend of yours, Miss Sinnet,' said
Lawford quietly 'a friend that was once your schoolfellow at
Brighton.'

'Well, now,' said the old lady, grasping her umbrella, 'that is
undoubtedly a clue; but then, you see, all but one of the friends
of my girlhood are dead; and if I have never had the pleasure of
meeting her son, unless there is a decided resemblance, how am I
to recollect HER by looking at HIM?'

'There is, I believe, a likeness,' said Lawford.