"Let me see," she said, "exactly fourteen years ago you arrived in Paris from London on a confidential mission to a certain person."
"To Lord Peters!" he exclaimed.
She nodded.
"You had half an hour to spare after you had finished your business, and you begged to see the young people. Maggie Peters was always a friend of yours. You came into the morning-room and I was there."
"You?"
"Yes! I was at school in Paris, and I was spending my half-holiday with
Maggie."
"The little brown girl!" he murmured. "I never heard your name, and when I sent the chocolates I had to send them to 'the young lady in brown.' Of course I remember! But your hair was down your back, you had freckles, and you were as silent as a mouse."
"You see how much better my memory is than yours," she laughed.
"I am not so sure," he objected. "You took me for the gardener just now."
"Not when you came down the steps," she protested, "and besides, it is your own fault for wearing such atrociously old clothes."