Fraeulein Mozer, with a heavy sense of the unsatisfactory nature of
this triangular conversation for a parting interview.

The governess felt this too. She had had a shrewd suspicion for some
time of the state of Holroyd's feelings towards Mabel, and felt a
sentimental pity for him, condemned as he was to disguise them under
ordinary afternoon conversation.

'He is going away,' she thought; 'but he shall have his chance, the
poor young man. You will not think it very rude, Mr. Holroyd,' she
said, rising: 'it will not disturb you if I practise? There is a piece
which I am to play at a school concert to-morrow, and do not yet know
it.'

'Vincent won't mind, Ottilia dear,' said Mabel. 'Will you, Vincent?'
So the governess went to the further room where the piano stood, and
was soon performing a conveniently noisy German march. Vincent sat
still for some moments watching Mabel. He wished to keep in his memory
the impression of her face as he saw it then, lighted up by the soft
glow of the heavily shaded lamp at her elbow; a spirited and yet
tender face, with dark-grey eyes, a sensitive, beautiful mouth, and
brown hair with threads of gold in it which gleamed in the lamplight
as she turned her graceful head.

He knew it would fade only too soon, as often happens with the face we
best love and have reason chiefly to remember. Others will rise
unbidden with the vividness of a photograph, but the _one_ face eludes
us more and more, till no effort of the mind will call it up with any
distinctness.

Mabel was the first to speak. 'Are you _very_ fond of music, Vincent?'
she said a little maliciously. 'Would you rather be allowed to listen
in peace, or talk? You _may_ talk, you know.'

'I came late on purpose to see as much of you as possible,' said poor
Vincent. 'This is the last time I shall be able to talk to you for so
long.'

'I know,' said Mabel, simply; 'I'm very sorry, Vincent.' But there was
only a frank friendliness in her eyes as she spoke, nothing more, and
Vincent knew it.

'So am I,' he said. 'Do you know, Mabel, I have no photograph of you.
Will you give me one to take away with me?'

'Of course, if I have one,' she said, as she went to a table for an
album. 'Oh, Vincent, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid there's not one left.
But I can give you one of mother and father and Dolly, and I think
Colin too.'

'I should like all those very much,' said Vincent, who could not
accept this offer as a perfect substitute,