‘You have his eyes,’ she assured him with a smile, and turned quickly to the window.
‘By Jove, you knew my father?’ He got out of his chair in his astonishment, and found himself, with a sense of shock, face to face with an old woman who smiled at him wanly.
‘Yes, many years ago.’
‘He never mentioned——’ he began; and stopped, blushing for his gaucherie. As if in atonement, ‘Please talk to me about my father, if it won’t distress you,’ he pleaded.
After a long silence, ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘There’s a story I can never tell you. But we’re going to be good friends, you and I, and some day we’ll have a long talk about your father.’
Embarrassed, he murmured lame thanks.
‘There’s forty years between us,’ she added, half to herself. ‘So we shall be good friends.’
The door was slightly ajar and in the contracted doorway flashed the smile of Mr. Bunnard.
‘Come along, Redshawe,’ chirped Mr. Bunnard. ‘The ladies are coming down to their tea. Slip away while you can and have a look at my Thought Forms.’
Redshawe, obeying this unwelcome summons, mused deeply on the story that he was never to hear.