"Love-letters?" he murmured, with a smile.
She flushed angrily and discovered in herself a ridiculous readiness to prove his speculation beside the mark.
"If I ever had any love-letters I certainly never kept them," she avowed. "These are only musty records of a past the influence of which has already exhausted itself."
"But photographs?" he persisted. "Let me look. Old photographs always thrill me."
She showed him one or two of her mother.
"Odd," he commented. "She rather reminds me of my sister. Something about the way the eyes are set."
"You're worrying about her?" Sylvia put in, quickly.
"No, no. Of course I shall be glad to hear she's safely by the sea on the other side, but I'm not worrying about her to the extent of fancying a non-existent likeness. There really is one; and if it comes to that, you're not unlike her yourself."
"My father and my grandfather were both English," Sylvia said. "My mother was French and my grandmother was Polish. My grandfather's name was Cunningham."
"What?" Michael asked, sharply. "That's odd."