mer from outside
the windows, the fire flickering in front of them, the grey kitten
purring against his neck, the smoke of their cigars going up, and such a
strange, dozing sense of rest, as he had not known for many days. And
then--something, someone at the door, over by the sideboard! And Dromore
speaking in a queer voice:

"Come in, Nell! D'you know my daughter?"

A hand took Lennan's, a hand that seemed to waver between the aplomb of a
woman of the world, and a child's impulsive warmth. And a voice, young,
clipped, clear, said:

"How d'you do? She's rather sweet, isn't she--my kitten?"

Then Dromore turned the light up. A figure fairly tall, in a grey
riding-habit, stupendously well cut; a face not quite so round as a
child's nor so shaped as a woman's, blushing slightly, very calm; crinkly
light-brown hair tied back with a black ribbon under a neat hat; and eyes
like those eyes of Gainsborough's 'Perdita'--slow, grey, mesmeric, with
long lashes curling up, eyes that draw things to them, still innocent.

And just on the point of saying: "I thought you'd stepped out of that
picture"--he saw Dromore's face, and mumbled instead:

"So it's YOUR kitten?"

"Yes; she goes to everybody. Do you like Persians? She's all fur
really. Feel!"

Entering with his fingers the recesses of the kitten, he said:

"Cats without fur are queer."

"Have you seen one without fur?"

"Oh, yes! In my profession we have to go below fur--I'm a sculptor."

"That must be awfully interesting."

What a woman of the world! But what a child, too! And now he could see
that the face in the sepia drawing was older altogether--lips not so
full, look not so innocent, cheeks not so round, and something sad and
desperate about it--a face that life had rudely touched. But the same
eyes it had--and what charm, for all its disillusionment, its air of a
history! Then he noticed, fastened to the frame, on a thin rod, a
dust-coloured curtain, drawn to one side. The self-possessed young voice
was saying:

"Would you mind if I showed you my drawings? It would be awfully good of
you. You could tell me about them." And with dismay he saw her open a
portfolio. While he scrutinized those schoolgirl drawings, he could feel
her looking at him, as animals do when they are making up their minds
whether or no to like you; then she came and stood so close that her arm
pressed his. He redoubled his efforts to find something good about the
dr