"It is false!" she said quietly; but the trembling of her hands belied her
composure.

The tawdry gilt clock on the mantelpiece by me ticked through a long
silence. The last act of the day's comedy seemed set for a more serious
scene.

"Why do you ask a stranger a question like that?" I said at last, giving
utterance to the thought that puzzled me.

"Whom should I ask? And I like your face--no, not because it is handsome.
You are English, sir?"

"Yes, I am English. My name is Gilbert Aycon."

"Aycon--Aycon! It is a little difficult to say it as you say it."

Her thoughts claimed her again. I threw my cigarette into the fire, and
stood waiting her pleasure. But she seemed to have no more to say, for she
rose from the seat and held out her hand to me.

"Will you 'shake hands?'" she said, the last two words in English; and she
smiled again.

I hastened to do as she asked me, and she moved toward the door.

"Perhaps," she said, "I shall see you to-morrow morning."

"I shall be here." Then I added: "I could not help hearing you talk of