sentiment. Could it be, I told myself, that I had been mistaken?

Our husbands looked exceedingly comfortable when we rejoined them, for
they were smoking vigorously and discussing the merits of two boxers
Mr. Underwood had recently seen. As we entered the room both men,
of course, sprang to their feet, and I had a moment's opportunity to
contrast their appearance.

Dicky is slender, lithe, with merry brown eyes and thick, brown hair,
with a touch of auburn in it, and just enough suspicion of a curl to
give him several minutes' hard brushing each day trying to keep it
down. Harry Underwood, taller even than Dicky, who is above the medium
height, is massive in frame, well built, muscular, with black hair
tinged with gray, and the blackest, most piercing eyes I have ever
seen. I was proud of Dicky as I stood looking at them, while
Lillian exchanged some merry nonsense with Dicky, but I also had to
acknowledge that Harry Underwood was a splendid specimen of manhood.

As if he had read my thoughts, his eyes caught mine and held them. To
all appearances he was listening to the banter of Dicky and his wife,
but there was an inscrutable look in his eyes, an enigmatical smile
upon his lips, as he looked at me that vaguely troubled me. His
glance, his smile, seemed significant somehow, as if we were old
friends who held some humorous experience in common remembrance. And I
had never seen him but once before in my life.

I shrugged my shoulders, ever so slightly. It is a habit of mine when
I am displeased, or wish to throw off some unpleasant sensation of
memory. I was almost unconscious of having used the gesture. But
Harry Underwood crossed the room as if it had been a signal, and stood