“Have I seen you anywhere before?” she asked, her charming smile softening the abruptness of the question. “Your face is so extraordinarily familiar.”
Jean shook her head.
“I don’t think so,” she answered. “I’m sure I should remember you if we had met anywhere. Besides, I’ve lived abroad all my life; this is only my first visit to England.”
“I think I can explain,” said Lady Anne. There was a deliberateness about her manner that suggested she was about to make a statement which she was aware would be of some special interest to at least one of the party. “Jean is Glyn Peterson’s daughter; so of course you see a likeness, Judith.”
Jean, glancing enquiringly across at Mrs. Craig, was startled at the sudden change in her face produced by Lady Anne’s simple announcement. The sallow skin seemed to pale—almost wither, like a cut flower that needs water—and the lips that had been parted in a smile stiffened slowly into their accustomed straight line.
“Of course”—Mrs. Craig’s voice sounded flat and she swallowed once or twice before she spoke—“that must be it. I—knew your father, Miss Peterson.”
To Jean, always sensitive to the emotional quality of the atmosphere, it seemed as though some current of hostility, of malevolence, leapt at her through the innocent-sounding speech. “I knew your father.” It was quite ridiculous, of course, but the words sounded almost like a threat.
She had no answer ready, and a brief silence followed. Then Lady Anne bridged the awkward moment with some commonplace, adroitly steering the conversation into smoother waters, and a few minutes later Mrs. Craig rose to go.
“I’ll see you across the park, Judith,” volunteered Nick, and he and his mother accompanied her out of the room.
In the hall, Lady Anne detained her visitor an instant with a light hand on her arm, while Nick foraged for his own particular headgear, amongst the family assortment of hats and caps.