“I am afraid I was,” admitted Jocelyn.
“I have two reasons: one vulgar—the other sentimental. The vulgar reason was curiosity. I like to know people whose appearance prepossesses me. I am an old woman—no, you need not shake your head, my dear! not with me—I am almost a very old woman, but not quite; and all my life I have trusted in appearances. And,” she paused, studying the lace of her fan, “I suppose I have not made more mistakes than other people. I have always made a point of trying to get to know people whose appearance I like. That is my vulgar reason. You do not mind my saying so—do you?”
Jocelyn laughed with slightly heightened colour, which Lady Cantourne noted with an appreciative little nod.
“My other reason is that, years ago at school, I knew a girl who was very like you. I loved her intensely—for a short time—as girls do at school, you know. Her name was Treseaton—the Honourable Julia Treseaton.”
“My mother!” said Jocelyn eagerly.
“I thought so. I did not think so at first, but when you spoke I was certain of it. She had a way with her lips. I am afraid she is dead.”
“Yes; she died nearly twenty-five years ago in Africa.”
“Africa—whereabouts in Africa?”
Then suddenly Jocelyn remembered where she had heard Lady Cantourne's name. It had only been mentioned to her once. And this was the aunt with whom Millicent Chyne lived. This cheery little lady knew Jack Meredith and Guy Oscard; and Millicent Chyne's daily life was part of her existence.
“The West Coast,” she answered vaguely. She wanted time to think—to arrange things in her mind. She was afraid of the mention of Jack's name in the presence of this woman of the world. She did not mind Maurice or Guy Oscard—but it was different with a woman. She could hardly have said a better thing, because it took Lady Cantourne some seconds to work out in her mind where the West Coast of Africa was.