"If I tell you something," he said, "promise me not to be angry."
"Angry? Why—what could you tell me that could make me angry? What is it?"
He smiled. "I know you will not like it."
Her eyes questioned him eagerly, but half-offended already.
"It's this. Ages ago—ten years ago—I was tremendously in love. And you are like her. That's it."
"Like her? How am I like her? And is that what you meant I should be angry at? I don't understand. How am I like her?"
"You look like her. It's the same type. It's quite extraordinary. Though she was blonde, rather—light-brown hair. But there's the same modelling of the face, the same eyes. … Is your family, by any chance, English, do you know? What was your maiden name?"
"Grange. My father's family was English. How odd!"
"That isn't the name—but there may be some connection somewhere. Her name was Mowbray."
Teresa shook her head. "I've got a family tree somewhere or other, but I don't remember all the names. Perhaps she's a far-away cousin. But it must be your fancy that I look like her."
"It's no fancy. I was struck by it the first time I saw you—still more so the second time,
