The second time that I saw Laura di san Marzano was nearly four years afterwards, in the hall of the Majestic Hotel, at Lucerne.
I had thought of her, at intervals, and had no difficulty in recognising her, in spite of the difference between eight years old and twelve.
She was tall and very slim, and the set of her dark head on her straight shoulders was just the same. Her black hair now fell in a long plait to her waist, but she still wore the straight, short fringe that suited her du Maurier profile.
It was late afternoon—tea-time, and the hall was full of people, and noisy.
Laura sat motionless, but somehow, one felt, very attentive, beside a beautifully-gowned and jewelled and painted woman, who was talking to half a dozen men.
Mama?
She looked very young to have a child of Laura’s age.
Then I saw that Laura’s green silk frock was absurdly short, and made in a babyish style, that matched the huge bow of green satin ribbon unnecessarily fastened over one ear.
My pupil, a nearly grown-up one, was late, and as I waited for her, I watched Laura.
Presently our eyes met. At once recognition leapt into hers, and she smiled at me, and bowed.