remissness, indeed. "He will be sending me chocolates next," thought
Varney, not a little puzzled.

He turned the pages curiously. Soon, observing a bit of brown
wrapping-paper sticking out between the leaves, he opened the magazine
at that point and found himself looking at a picture; and he sat still
and stared at it for a long time.

It was the full-page portrait of a young man of some thirty years: a
rather thin young man with a high forehead, a straight nose, and a
smallish chin. The face was good-looking, but somehow not quite
attractive. About the eyes was an expression faintly unpleasant, which
the neat glasses did not hide. On the somewhat slack lip was a slight
twist, not agreeable, which the well-kept mustache could not conceal.
Still it was an interesting face, clever, assured, half-insolent. To
Varney, it was exceptionally interesting; for removing the mustache and
eye-glasses, it might have passed anywhere for his own.

Below the portrait was printed this legend:

_FERRIS STANHOPE_.

The popular author of "Rosamund," etc., who will reopen the old Stanhope
cottage near Hunston, New York, and spend the autumn there upon a new
novel.

Mr. Stanhope's health has not been good of late, and his physicians have
recommended an extended stay in this quiet Hudson River country.

* * * * *