"I'm trying to remember what it is I have heard about you," she
continued amiably; "you are--"

An odd expression in his eyes arrested her--long enough to note their
colour and expression--and she continued, pleasantly; "--you are Stephen
Siward, are you not? You see I know your name perfectly well--" Her
straight brows contracted a trifle; she drove on, lips compressed,
following an elusive train of thought which vaguely, persistently,
coupled his name with something indefinitely unpleasant. And she could
not reconcile this with his appearance. However, the train of unlinked
ideas which she pursued began to form the semblance of a chain. Coupling
his name with Quarrier's, and with a club, aroused memory; vague
uneasiness stirred her to a glimmering comprehension. Siward? Stephen
Siward? One of the New York Siwards then;--one of that race--

Suddenly the truth flashed upon her,--the crude truth lacking definite
detail, lacking circumstance and colour and atmosphere,--merely the raw
and ugly truth.

Had he looked at her--and he did, once--he could have seen only the
unruffled and very sweet profile of a young girl. Composure was one of
the masks she had learned to wear--when she chose.

And she was thinking very hard all the while; "So this is the man? I
might have known his name. Where were my five wits? Siward!--Stephen
Siward! . He is very young, too . much too young to be so horrid. .
Yet--it wasn't so dreadful, after all; only the publicity! Dear me! I
knew we were going too fast."