He also made another discovery. Someone played an interminable piece
of classic music. During its recital it was not possible for Miss
Penrhyn to talk with the men about her, and as the animation faded
from her face, he noticed the same preoccupied look overspread it
which had characterized it the night she had entered the ball-room at
the Legation. Something troubled her, but to Dartmouth's quick eye
it was not an active trouble, it was more like a shadow which took
possession of her face in its moments of repose with the quiet
assurance of a dweller of long standing. Possibly she herself was
habitually forgetful of its cause; but the cause had struck deep
into the roots of her nature, and its shadow had become a part of
her beauty. Dartmouth speculated much and widely, but rejected the
hypothesis of a lover. She had never loved for a moment; and in spite
of his platonic predilections, this last of his conclusions held a
very perceptible flavor of satisfaction. When the classic young lady
had gracefully acknowledged the raptures she had evoked, and tripped
back to her seat, Miss Penrhyn was asked to sing, and then Dartmouth
saw his opportunity; he captured her when she had finished, and bore
her off to the conservatory before anyone could interfere.

"You sing charmingly," he said. "Will you sing for me to-morrow?"

"If you can stretch flattery to that extent, with Patti at the Grand
Opera House."

"I have been listening to Patti for fifteen years, and man loves
variety. I wish I could tell where I have seen you before," he
continued, abruptly. "Do you look like your mother? I may have seen
her in my youth."