'Ah—true,' said Lady Fettercairn: 'when Lennard was that age—the age of this young man—the art was scarcely known. And who is he?'
Dulcie hesitated.
'I have no right to ask,' said Lady Fettercairn, hauteur blending with the certainly deep interest with which she regarded the contents of the still open locket.
'One who loved me,' said Dulcie, with a kind of sob.
'And whom you love?' said the lady, stiffly.
'Yes, madam.'
'It is the image of Lennard!' continued Lady Fettercairn musingly; 'but there sounds the breakfast-bell,' she added, and turned abruptly away.
What were the precise antecedents of this girl, Miss Carlyon, who had been recommended to her by her friend, the vicar, in London? thought Lady Fettercairn, as her cold, passive, and aristocratic frame of mind resumed its sway. Yet, though she remained silent on the subject, and disdained to inquire further about it, that miniature interested her deeply, and frequently at table and elsewhere Dulcie caught her eyes resting on the locket.
It filled her with a distinct and haunting memory of one seen long ago, and not in dreams, for Lady Fettercairn was not of an imaginative turn of mind.
It may seem strange that amid all this Dulcie never thought of mentioning that Florian was the cousin of Shafto; but she knew how distasteful to Lady Fettercairn was anyone connected with the family of Lennard's dead wife, Flora MacIan.