III.
One day, at Brighton, some six years later, a lady in widow's
weeds, accompanied by a long, loose-limbed boy of fourteen, was
taking the air by the sea. The place was full of people, and the
scene gay.
Mrs. Mortimer sat down on a seat and Johnnie stood idly by her.
Presently a young man and a girl came along. While they were
still a long way off, Mrs. Mortimer, who was looking in that
direction, suddenly leaned forward, started a little, and looked
hard at them. Johnnie, noticing nothing, whistled unconcernedly.
The couple drew near. Mrs. Mortimer sat with a faint smile on
her face. The girl was chatting merrily to the young man, and he
listened to her and laughed every now and then, but his
bright eyes were not fixed on her, but were here, there, and
everywhere, where metal attractive to such eyes might be found.
The discursive mood of the eyes somehow pleased Mrs. Mortimer.
Just as the young man came opposite her, he glanced in her
direction.
Mrs. Mortimer wore the curious, half-indifferent, half-expectant
air of one ready for recognition, but not claiming it as a right.
At the first glance, a puzzled look came into the young man's
eyes. He looked again: then there was a blank in his eyes. Mrs.
Mortimer made no sign, but sat still, half-expectant. He was
past her now, but he flung a last glance over his shoulder. He
was evidently very doubtful whether the lady on the seat, in the
heavy mourning robes, were someone he knew or not. First he
thought she was, and then he thought she wasn't. The face
certainly reminded him of--now who the deuce was it? Harry knit
his brows and exclaimed:
"I half believe that's somebody I know!"
And he puzzled over it, for nearly five minutes, all in vain.
Meanwhile Mrs. Mortimer looked at the sea, till Johnnie told her
that it was dinner-time.
