You were--The Lady Downstairs." She flung out the silver laugh again.
"After all these years! After one has grown old and withered and wrinkled--and has a grown-up daughter." He answered with a dazzling young-man-of-the-world bow and air.

He had not been to Eton and Oxford and touched the outskirts of two or three London seasons, as a boy beauty and a modest Apollo Belvidere in his teens, without learning a number of pleasant little ways.
"You are exactly as you were the morning you came into the Gardens dressed in crocuses and daffodils.

I thought they were daffodils and crocuses.

I said so to my mother afterwards." He did not like her but he knew how her world talked to her.

And he wanted to hear her speak--The Lady Downstairs--who had not "liked" the soft-eyed, longing, warm little lonely thing.
"All people say of you is entirely true," she said.