And she could not reconcile this with his appearance.

However, the train of unlinked ideas which she pursued began to form the semblance of a chain.

Coupling his name with Quarrier's, and with a club, aroused memory; vague uneasiness stirred her to a glimmering comprehension.

Siward?
Stephen Siward?
One of the New York Siwards then;--one of that race-- Suddenly the truth flashed upon her,--the crude truth lacking definite detail, lacking circumstance and colour and atmosphere,--merely the raw and ugly truth.
Had he looked at her--and he did, once--he could have seen only the unruffled and very sweet profile of a young girl.

Composure was one of the masks she had learned to wear--when she chose.
And she was thinking very hard all the while; "So this is the man?
I might have known his name.