Winston, as it happened, felt this too, and something more. It was
eight years since he had stood before an English lady, and he surmised
that there could not be many to compare with this one, while after his
grim lonely life an intangible something that seemed to emanate from
her gracious serenity compelled his homage. Then as she smiled at him
and held out her hand, he was for a moment sensible of an almost
overwhelming confusion. It passed as suddenly, for this was a man of
quick perceptions, and remembering that Courthorne had now and then
displayed some of the grace of by-gone days he yielded to a curious
impulse, and, stooping, kissed the little withered fingers.
"I have," he said, "to thank you for a welcome that does not match my
poor deserts, madam."
Then Dane, standing beside his leader, saw the grimness grow a trifle
less marked in his eyes. "It is in the blood," he said half-aloud, but
Dane heard and afterwards remembered it.
In the meanwhile Miss Barrington had turned from the stranger to her
niece. "It is a very long time since you have seen Lance, Maud, and,
though I knew his mother well, I am less fortunate, because this is our
first meeting," she said. "I wonder if you still remember my niece?"
Now, Winston had been gratified by his first success, and was about to
venture on the answer that it was impossible to forget; but when he
turned towards the very stately young woman in the long black dress
whose eyes had a sardonic gleam, and wondered whether he had ever seen
anybody so comely or less inclined to be companionable, it was borne in
upon him that any speech of the kind would be distinctly out of place.
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