'Who is she?' I asked.
The old-fashioned building of the powdered hair counselled me to add, 'Who was she?'
Captain DeWitt, though a member of the Club, seemed unable to inform me. His glance consulted my father. He hummed and drawled, and said: 'Mistress Anastasia Dewsbury; that was her name.'
'She does not look a grandmother,' said my father.
'She would be one by this time, I dare say,' said I.
We gazed in silence.
'Yes!' he sighed. 'She was a charming actress, and one of the best of women. A noble-minded young woman! A woman of cultivation and genius! Do you see a broken heart in that face? No? Very well. A walk will take us to her grave. She died early.'
I was breathing 'Who?' when he said, 'She was my mother, my dear.'
It was piteous.
We walked to an old worn flat stone in a London street, where under I had to imagine those features of beautiful humanity lying shut from us.