that he was one of those rare people who can sing a comic song with
immense success while preserving a sour countenance, like a Puritan
preacher's. His eyes were a little sunken, his fingers long and nervous;
but I fancied he looked a good fellow at heart, for all that, though
foolishly impulsive. He was a punctilious gentleman, I felt sure; his
face and manner grew upon one rapidly.

Daphne rose as I entered, and waved the stranger forward with an
imperious little wave. I imagined, indeed, that I detected in the
gesture a faint touch of half-unconscious proprietorship. "Good-morning,
Hubert," she said, taking my hand, but turning towards the tall young
man. "I don't think you know Mr. Cecil Holsworthy."

"I have heard you speak of him," I answered, drinking him in with my
glance. I added internally, "Not half good enough for you."

Hilda's eyes met mine and read my thought. They flashed back word, in
the language of eyes, "I do not agree with you."

Daphne, meanwhile, was watching me closely. I could see she was anxious
to discover what impression her friend Mr. Holsworthy was making on me.
Till then, I had no idea she was fond of anyone in particular; but
the way her glance wandered from him to me and from me to Hilda showed
clearly that she thought much of this gawky visitor.

We sat and talked together, we four, for some time. I found the young
man with the lugubrious countenance improved immensely on closer
acquaintance. His talk was clever. He turned out to be the son of a
politician high in office in the Canadian Government, and he had been
educated at Oxford. The father, I gathered, was rich, but he himself was