“Oh, no. I just spend it, and then mamma has the responsibility of sending me some more.”
Neither Mrs. Bohun nor Miss Birch could keep her countenance at this naïve disclosure, but its effect upon Lady Florencecourt was to make her grow grimmer than ever.
“I’m sure it’s a very nice thing to have such a good mamma,” said Mrs. Bohun indulgently. “Don’t you think so, Clarissa?”
“Undoubtedly.”
The tone in which Lady Florencecourt gave this short answer, caused Nouna to look up at her.
“Do you know my mother?” she asked abruptly.
“I have not that honour,” answered Lady Florencecourt, many degrees below zero.
Quite unmoved this time by her hostess’s frigidity, Nouna mused a few moments with her eyes fixed on the lady’s face. Then she said slowly:
“I believe Lord Florencecourt knows mamma though——”
She stopped short, bewildered by the sudden change these few words brought about in the placid, self-satisfied countenance. Then, as there was a moment’s awkward pause, she went on hurriedly—“At least, I know mamma has an old portrait—one of those old-fashioned dark things with glass over them, that is like him. I knew when I met him first at the barracks that I had seen his face somewhere, and when I thought, I remembered the picture.”