"Oh! that surprises me very much. Monsieur Redcliffe—your son—is it possible he should have been so much older?"
"My son's name was Deverell," said the old lady, sadly.
"Ah! that's very odd. He, Guy, then, had an uncle who had a friend of that name—Guy Deverell—long ago, in this country. That is very interesting."
"Is not it?" repeated Lady Alice, with a gasp. "I feel, somehow, it must be he—a tall, slight young man."
"Alas! madam, he is much changed if it be he. He must have been older than your son, madam. He must be, I think, near sixty now, and grown rather stout. I've heard him talk at times of his friend Guy Deverell."
"And with affection, doubtless."
"Well, yes, with affection, certainly, and with great indignation of his death—the mode of it."
"Ah! yes," said Lady Alice, flushing to the roots of her grey hair, and looking down on her plate.
Here there was silence for the space of a minute or more.
"Yes, Monsieur Varbarriere; but you know, even though we cannot always forget, we must forgive."