"Do you want this on the dressing table?" The nurse held up a little
oblong case.

It was his make-up box, luckily tied round with string.

"Good heavens, no!" he exclaimed. He wished he could have told her
to burn it. He felt happier when all his belongings were stowed away
out of sight and the old trunk and portmanteau hauled out of the
room.

Colonel Winwood came home and asked his sister pertinent questions.
He was a bald, sad-looking man with a long grizzling moustache that
drooped despondently. But he had a square, obstinate chin, and his
eyes, though they seldom smiled, were keen and direct, like Miss
Winwood's. Romance had passed him by long since. He did not believe
in paragons.

"I gather, my dear Ursula," said he in a dry voice, "that our guest
is an orphan, of good Italian family, brought up in England by a
guardian now dead who lived in France. Also that he is of
prepossessing exterior, of agreeable manners, of considerable
cultivation, and apparently of no acquaintance. But what I can't
make out is: what he does for a living, how he came to be half-
starved on his walking tour--the doctor said so, you remember--
where he was going from and where he is going to when he leaves our
house. In fact, he seems to be a very vague and mysterious person,
of whom, for a woman of your character and peculiar training, you
know singularly little."