And thus abruptly Graham was introduced to the owner of the haunting face. He had lived too much in the great world all his life to retain the innate shyness of an Englishman; but he certainly was confused and embarrassed when his eyes met Isaura’s, and he felt her hand on his arm. Before quitting the room she paused and looked back. Graham’s look followed her own, and saw behind them the lady with the scarlet jacket escorted by some portly and decorated connoisseur. Isaura’s face brightened to another kind of brightness,—a pleased and tender light.
“Poor dear Madre,” she murmured to herself in Italian. “Madre!” echoed Graham, also in Italian. “I have been misinformed, then; that lady is your mother.”
Isaura laughed a pretty, low, silvery laugh, and replied in English, “She is not my mother; but I call her Madre, for I know no name more loving.”
Graham was touched, and said gently, “Your own mother was evidently very dear to you.”
Isaura’s lip quivered, and she made a slight movement as if she would have withdrawn her hand from his arm. He saw that he had offended or wounded her, and with the straightforward frankness natural to him, resumed quickly, “My remark was impertinent in a stranger; forgive it.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Monsieur.”
The two now threaded their way through the crowd, both silent. At last Isaura, thinking she ought to speak first in order to show that Graham had not offended her, said,
“How lovely Mrs. Morley is!”
“Yes; and I like the spirit and ease of her American manner. Have you known her long, Mademoiselle?”
“No; we met her for the first time some weeks ago at M. Savarin’s.”