"She means nothing," I began, and made as if to tap my forehead significantly.
"Yes, I do mean something," she persisted. "They belong to me.
I remember—"
"What do you remember?"
Her expression, which for a moment had been thoughtful, wavered and changed into a vague foolish smile. "I can't tell . . . something . . . it was sand, I think . . ."
"Who is she?" asked Mr. Laquedem.
"Her name is Julia Constantine. Her parents are dead; an aunt looks after her—a sister of her mother's."
He turned and appeared to be studying the frescoes. "Julia Constantine—an odd name," he muttered. "Do you know anything of her parentage?"
"Nothing except that her father was a labourer at Sheba, the manor-farm. The family has belonged to this parish for generations. I believe July is the last of them."
He faced round upon her again. "Sand, did you say? That's a strange thing to remember. How does sand come into your mind? Think, now."
She cast down her eyes; her fingers plucked at the daisy-chain. After a while she shook her head. "I can't think," she answered, glancing up timidly and pitifully.