I scarce know how long I had sat when I became aware of a recognition
which made my meditations definite. It was on my own part, and the
object of it was a lady who moved to and fro, unconscious of my
observation, with a young girl at her side. I hadn't seen her for ten
years, and what first struck me was the fact not that she was Mrs. Henry
Pallant, but that the girl who was with her was remarkably pretty--or
rather first of all that every one who passed appeared extremely to
admire. This led me also to notice the young lady myself, and her
charming face diverted my attention for some time from that of her
companion. The latter, moreover, though it was night, wore a thin light
veil which made her features vague. The couple slowly walked and walked,
but though they were very quiet and decorous, and also very well
dressed, they seemed to have no friends. Every one observed but no one
addressed them; they appeared even themselves to exchange very few
words. Moreover they bore with marked composure and as if they were
thoroughly used to it the attention they excited. I am afraid it
occurred to me to take for granted that they were of an artful intention
and that if they hadn't been the elder lady would have handed the
younger over a little less to public valuation and not have sought so to
conceal her own face. Perhaps this question came into my mind too easily
just then--in view of my prospective mentorship to my nephew. If I was
to show him only the best of Europe I should have to be very careful
about the people he should meet--especially the ladies--and the
relations he should form. I suspected him of great innocence and was
uneasy about my office. Was I completely relieved and reassured when I
became aware that I simply had Louisa Pallant before me and that the
girl was her daughter Linda, whom I had known as a child--Linda grown up
to charming beauty?