young lady was evidently American, and he was evidently English;
otherwise I should have guessed from his impressive air that he was
her father. I wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure he
was giving the very best advice; and the strong tenderness of his gaze
was really beautiful. He seemed magnetic, as he poured out his final
injunctions. I could feel something of his magnetism even where I
stood. And the magnetism, like the profile, was vaguely familiar to
me. Where had I experienced it?

In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert le Ros. But how changed
since last I saw him! That was seven or eight years ago, in the
Strand. He was then (as usual) out of an engagement, and borrowed
half-a-crown. It seemed a privilege to lend anything to him. He was
always magnetic. And why his magnetism had never made him successful
on the London stage was always a mystery to me. He was an excellent
actor, and a man of sober habit. But, like many others of his kind,
Hubert le Ros (I do not, of course, give the actual name by which he
was known) drifted seedily away into the provinces; and I, like every
one else, ceased to remember him.

It was strange to see him, after all these years, here on the platform
of Euston, looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the flesh
that he had put on, but also the clothes, that made him hard to
recognise. In the old days, an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as
integral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws. But now his
costume was a model of rich and sombre moderation, drawing, not
calling, attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one would
have been proud to be seen off by him.

`Stand back, please.' The train was about to start, and I waved