brilliantly witty. When he spoke people paused as if they could not
bear to lose a phrase or even a word. But in the midst of the trills
of laughter surrounding him his eyes were unchangingly sad. His face
laughed or smiled, but his eyes never.

"He is the greatest artist in England and the most brilliant man," Mrs.
MacNairn said to me, quietly. "But he is the saddest, too. He had a
lovely daughter who was killed instantly, in his presence, by a fall.
They had been inseparable companions and she was the delight of his
life. That strange, fixed look has been in his eyes ever since. I know
you have noticed it."

We were walking about among the flower-beds after tea, and Mr. MacNairn
was showing me a cloud of blue larkspurs in a corner when I saw
something which made me turn toward him rather quickly.

"There is one!" I said. "Do look at her! Now you see what I mean! The
girl standing with her hand on Mr. Le Breton's arm."

Mr. Le Breton was the brilliant man with the sad eyes. He was standing
looking at a mass of white-and-purple iris at the other side of the
garden. There were two or three people with him, but it seemed as if for
a moment he had forgotten them--had forgotten where he was. I wondered
suddenly if his daughter had been fond of irises. He was looking at them
with such a tender, lost expression. The girl, who was a lovely, fair
thing, was standing quite close to him with her hand in his arm, and she
was smiling, too--such a smile!

"Mr. Le Breton!" Mr. MacNairn said in a rather startled tone. "The girl
with her hand in his arm?"