vening.'

'Oh, he goes to bed at some unnatural hour--eight o'clock or something
of that sort. You know he's rather an old mummy.'

'An old mummy?' Oliver Lyon repeated.

'I mean he wears half a dozen waistcoats, and that sort of thing. He's
always cold.'

'I have never seen him and never seen any portrait or photograph of
him,' Lyon said. 'I'm surprised at his never having had anything
done--at their waiting all these years.'

'Ah, that's because he was afraid, you know; it was a kind of
superstition. He was sure that if anything were done he would die
directly afterwards. He has only consented to-day.'

'He's ready to die then?'

'Oh, now he's so old he doesn't care.'

'Well, I hope I shan't kill him,' said Lyon. 'It was rather unnatural in
his son to send for me.'

'Oh, they have nothing to gain--everything is theirs already!' his
companion rejoined, as if she took this speech quite literally. Her
talkativeness was systematic--she fraternised as seriously as she might
have played whist. 'They do as they like--they fill the house with
people--they have _carte blanche_.'

'I see--but there's still the title.'

'Yes, but what is it?'

Our artist broke into laughter at this, whereat his companion stared.
Before he had recovered himself she was scouring the plain with her
other neighbour. The gentleman on his left at last risked an
observation, and they had some fragmentary talk. This personage played
his part with difficulty: he uttered a remark as a lady fires a pistol,
looking the other way. To catch the ball Lyon had to bend his ear, and
this movement led to his observing a handsome creature who was seated on
the same side, beyond his interlocutor. Her profile was presented to him
and at first he was only struck with its beauty; then it produced an
impression still more agreeable--a sense of undimmed remembrance and
intimate association. He had not recognised her on the instant only
because he had so little expected to see her there; he had not seen her
anywhere for so long, and no news of her ever came to him. She was often
in his thoughts, but she had passed out of his life. He thought of her
twice a week; that may be called often in relation to a person one has
not seen for twelve years. The moment after he recognised her he felt
how true it was that it was only she who could look like that: of the
most charming head in the world (and this lady had it) there could never
be a replica. She was leaning