“Good-bye, Signora. You will let me call in again some day, I hope?”
“If you like. Why did you think I knew your friend, Mr. Van—sit—tart?”
“Because last May I saw you in Cheyne Walk talking to a man whom I took for Vansittart. A tall man, with fair hair. You seemed very friendly with him; your hands were clasped upon his arm: you were smiling up at him.”
This time Lisa blushed a deep carnation, and her face saddened.
“Oh, that,” she stammered—“that was some one I knew in Italy.”
“Not Vansittart?”
“No.”
“But the gentleman has a name of some kind,” persisted Sefton.
“Never mind his name,” she answered abruptly. “I don’t want to talk about him. I may never see him again, perhaps.” And then, brushing away a tear, and becoming suddenly frivolous, she asked, “How did you come to remember me—after so long?”
“Because that moment by the river yonder has lived in my memory ever since—because no man can forget the loveliest face he ever saw in his life.”