“No one but you ever thought of such a thing as bringing a buffet for my feet—no one except poor little Jem,” she said, and her voice was wistful as well as her smile.
She was obviously unaware that she was introducing an entirely new acquaintance to him. Poor little Jem was supposed to be some one whose whole history he knew.
“Jem?” he repeated, carefully transferring a piece of hot buttered crumpet to his plate.
“Jem Temple Barholm,” she answered. “I say little Jem because I remember him only as a child. I never saw him after he was eleven years old.”
“Who was he?” he asked. The tone of her voice and her manner of speaking made him feel that he wanted to hear something more.
She looked rather startled by his ignorance. “Have you—have you never heard of him?” she inquired.
“No. Is he another distant relation?”
Her hesitation caused him to neglect his crumpet, to look up at her. He saw at once that she wore the air of a sensitive and beautifully mannered elderly lady who was afraid she had made a mistake and said something awkward.
“I am so sorry,” she apologized. “Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned him.”
“Why shouldn’t he be mentioned?”