service; and next day, at sight of Pethel awaiting me outside his hotel, I
became less confident. His, thought I, was a face which, for all its
animation, would tell nothing--nothing, at any rate, that mattered. It
expressed well enough that he was pleased to see me; but for the rest I
was reminded that it had a sort of frank inscrutability. Besides, it was at
all points so very usual a face--a face that couldn't (so I then thought),
even if it had leave to, betray connection with a "great character." It was
a strong face, certainly; but so are yours and mine.

And very fresh it looked, though, as he confessed, Pethel had sat up
in "that beastly baccarat-room" till five A.M. I asked, had he lost? Yes,
he had lost steadily for four hours (proudly he laid stress on this), but in
the end--well, he had won it all back "and a bit more." "By the way," he
murmured as we were about to enter the hall, "don't ever happen to
mention to my wife what I told you about that Argentine deal. She's
always rather nervous about--investments. I don't tell her about them.
She's rather a nervous woman altogether, I'm sorry to say."

This did not square with my preconception of her. Slave that I am
to traditional imagery, I had figured her as "flaunting," as golden-haired,
as haughty to most men, but with a provocative smile across the shoulder
for some. Nor, indeed, did her husband's words save me the suspicion
that my eyes deceived me when anon I was presented to a very pale,
small lady whose hair was rather white than gray. And the "little
daughter!" This prodigy's hair was as yet "down," but looked as if it
might be up at any moment: she was nearly as tall as her father, whom
she very much resembled in face and figure and heartiness of
hand-shake. Only after a rapid mental calculation could I account for
her.