front; her head was bent downward a little, and her dark eyes fixed. But her awkwardness was as pretty as that of some angular seraph in a mediæval carving, and in her sober gaze there seemed to lurk the questioning gleam of childhood. "What is this for?" her charming eyes appeared to ask; "why have I been decked, for this ceremony, in a white frock and amber beads?"
"Gracious powers!" I said to myself; "what an enchanting thing is innocence!"
"That portrait was taken a year and a half ago," said Pickering, as if with an effort to be perfectly just. "By this time, I suppose, she looks a little wiser."
"Not much, I hope," I said, as I gave it back. "She's lovely!"
"Yes, poor girl, she's lovely—no doubt!" And he put the thing away without looking at it.
We were silent for some moments. At last, abruptly: "My dear fellow," I said, "I should take some satisfaction in seeing you immediately leave Homburg."
"Immediately?"
"To-day—as soon as you can get ready."
He looked at me, surprised, and little by little he blushed. "There's something I've not told you," he said; "something that your saying that Madame Blumenthal has no reputation to lose has made me half afraid to tell you."
