"I!" he returned, in a surprise very well feigned if not real. "What woman? Do you mean the one who was standing out there yesterday?"
"You know I do. She has been there again—all the blessed afternoon, as Penelope expresses it. Asking questions of the girl about you—and me—and Walter; and saying the child has your beautiful brown eyes. I ask you who is she?"
Mr. Hamlyn laid down his knife and fork to gaze at his wife. He looked quite at sea.
"Eliza, I assure you I know nothing about it. Or about her."
"Indeed! Don't you think it may be some acquaintance, old or new? Possibly someone you knew in the days gone by—come over seas to see whether you are yet in the land of the living? She has wonderful hair, which looks like spun gold."
All in a moment, as the half-mocking words left her lips, some idea seemed to flash across Philip Hamlyn, bringing with it distress and fear. His face turned to a burning red and then grew white as the hue of the grave.
Johnny Ludlow.
