a time in his youth when the wandering spirit had filled his soul, when
the love of adventure had lent wings to his feet, and the glory of
romance had lured him to the lights and shadows of other skies than
these. But Verdayne was older now, very much older! He had lived his
life, he said, and settled down!

In the shade of the tall trees of the park, two men were drinking in the
beauties of the season, in all the glory and splendor of its
ever-changing, yet ever-enduring loveliness. One of them was past forty,
the ripeness of middle age and the general air of a well-spent,
well-directed, and fully-developed life lending to his face and form an
unusual distinction--even in that land of distinguished men. His
companion was a boy of twenty, straight and tall and proud, carrying
himself with the regal grace of a Greek god. He was a strong, handsome,
healthy, well-built, and well-instructed boy, a boy at whom any one who
looked once would be sure to look the second time, even though he could
not tell exactly wherein the peculiar charm lay. Both men were fair of
hair and blue-eyed, with clear, clean skins and well-bred English faces,
and the critical observer could scarcely fail to notice how curiously
they resembled each other. Indeed, the younger of the pair might easily
have been the replica of the elder's youth.

When they spoke, however, the illusion of resemblance disappeared. In
the voice of the Boy was a certain vibrant note that was entirely
lacking in the deeper tones of the man--not an accent, nor yet an
inflection, but still a quality that lent a subtle suggestion of foreign
shores. It was an expressive voice, neither languorous nor unduly
forceful, but strangely magnetic, and adorably rich and full, and
musical, thrilling its hearers with its suggestion of latent physical
and spiritual force.