Miranda came slowly to meet her, holding in her hand the card she had sent.
She had grown to the loveliness Peter had divined in her. Her eyes had softened, their passion held in reserve. The lines of her beauty were severe, but their severity veiled the promise of her surrender. She was radiant with a vitality serenely masked—a queen ready at the true word to come down.
She looked from the card she held to Mrs. Paragon.
"You are Peter's mother," she said, in the manner of one speaking to herself.
"You remember him?" asked Mrs. Paragon.
Miranda did not answer.
"Come to my room," she said, and led the way upstairs.
Her room was cheerful with firelight and simple comfort. Mrs. Paragon again wondered at finding her thus alone and able to command. Miranda drew her a chair to the fire, and, as Mrs. Paragon sat down, she put an arm about her shoulder and looked at her.
"I've often wondered what you were like," she said.
"You had forgotten?"