``I'm sorry you're going away,'' she said. ``It has been so odd.
You come suddenly up out of the wilderness, and set me to
thinking and try to trouble me with questions about myself, and
then steal away again without stopping to help me to settle them.
Is it fair?'' She rose and put out her hand, and he took it
and held it for a moment, while they stood looking at one
another.

``I am coming back,'' he said, ``and I will find that you have
settled them for yourself.''

``Good-by,'' she said, in so low a tone that the people standing
near them could not hear. ``You haven't asked me for it, you
know, but--I think I shall let you keep that picture.''


``Thank you,'' said Clay, smiling, ``I meant to.''

``You can keep it,'' she continued, turning back, ``because it is
not my picture. It is a picture of a girl who ceased to exist
four years ago, and whom you have never met. Good-night.''

Mr. Langham and Hope, his younger daughter, had been to the
theatre. The performance had been one which delighted Miss Hope,
and which satisfied her father because he loved to hear her
laugh. Mr. Langham was the slave of his own good fortune. By
instinct and education he was a man of leisure and culture, but
the wealth he had inherited was like an unruly child that needed
his constant watching, and in keeping it well in hand he had
become a man of business, with time for nothing else.