"I know," replied Miss Kite. "It was a silly remark. Whatever
induced me to make it, I can't think. Getting foolish in my old age,
I suppose."

The stranger laughed. "Surely you are not old."

"I'm thirty-nine," snapped out Miss Kite. "You don't call it young?"

"I think it a beautiful age," insisted the stranger; "young enough not
to have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy."

"Oh, I daresay," returned Miss Kite, "any age you'd think beautiful.
I'm going to bed." Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got
itself broken. She threw the fragments into the fire.

"It is early yet," pleaded the stranger, "I was looking forward to a
talk with you."

"Well, you'll be able to look forward to it," retorted Miss Kite.
"Good-night."

The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in
the glass, in her own room with the door shut. The vision of that
other Miss Kite--the clean-looking lady of the pale face and the brown
hair had been so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary
forgetfulness might not have fallen upon her while dressing for dinner
that evening.

The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table,