"Oh, he is about, somewhere," Guy answered carelessly, still
keeping his eye fixed hard on the pretty girl. "I'll fetch him
round by-and-by to pay his respects in due form. He'll be only too
glad. And this, I suppose, must be Miss Clifford that I've heard
so much about."

As he said those words, a little gleam of pleasure shot through
Elma's eyes. Her painter hadn't forgotten her, then. He had talked
much about her.

"Yes, I knew who you must be the very first moment I saw you," she
answered, blushing; "you're so much like him in some ways, though
not in all.... And he told me that day he had a twin brother."

"So much like him in some ways," Guy repeated, much amused. "Why,
I wonder you don't take me for Cyril himself at once. You're the
very first person I ever knew in my life, except a few old and very
intimate friends, who could tell at all the difference between us."

Elma drew back, almost as if shocked and hurt at the bare suggestion.

"Oh, dear no," she cried quickly, scanning him over at once with
those piercing keen eyes of hers; "you're like him, of course--I
don't deny the likeness--as brothers may be like one another. Your
features are the same, and the colour of your hair and eyes, and
all that sort of thing; but still, I knew at a glance you weren't
my Mr. Waring. I could never mistake you for him. The expression
and the look are so utterly different."

"You must be a very subtle judge of faces," the young man answered,