hat Traill had told her of his sister, was racing wildly through
her thoughts. She knew she was being criticized, knew that her
position there was being looked upon in the least charitable light
of all. She should never have come into the room. The fact that her
voice had been heard, would have made no difference. But who thinks
of such things when the moment is a goad, pricking mercilessly? Now
she was there, her position could scarcely be worse. She would have
given her life almost, in those first few moments, to sink into
obscurity, no matter what peals of ironical laughter might ring in
her ears as she vanished. But the thing was done now, and for every
little attention he paid her, she thanked Traill with a full heart.

"What on earth have you got in that parcel?" he asked her, as he
crushed down the saucepan of coffee to heat upon the fire.

Her cheeks reddened--flamed. It felt to her as if the eyes of his
sister were lenses concentrating a burning sun upon her face.

"Oh it's nothing," she said, mastering confusion; "only something
that I was taking home."

His eyes questioned her, noting the flaming cheeks while his sister
studied the muscular development and forbidding features of James
Brownrigg--heavy-weight champion in the fifties, whose portrait
hung over the mantelpiece.

"Isn't this the type of man you'd call a bruiser?" she asked, with
a pretty trace of doubtful confidence in her technical knowledge on
the last word.

"That chap--Brownrigg? No. I should call him a gentleman. I'd have
given a good deal to see him fight. He always allowed his man to have
his chance, though there wasn't one in England he couldn't have
knocked out in the first round. He used to keep that glorious left
of his tucked up, as quiet as a pet spaniel under a lady's arm, till
he'd given his man time to show what he was worth. Then he'd shake
his shoulders, grin a bit with that ugly mouth--never with his
eyes--and plant his blow, the kick of a mule, and his man curled up
like a caterpillar on a hot brick. That stroke got to be known as
James Brownrigg's Waiting Left. I've met him. He kept a public house
up in Islington. Died about four years ago, with both fists clenched,
and his left still waiting. It's quite possible he kept it waiting
till he got to the gates of heaven."

Mrs. Durlacher looked up at the portrait again and then
half-shuddered her graceful shoulders.

"I suppose a man can be a gentleman and look like that