with wide-open eyes, which he held before him with trembling, nerveless fingers. The picture of a woman! The picture of her!
It had lain loose in the book, with its back towards him. Only chance made him turn it over. As he looked he understood. There was the likeness, such likeness as there may be between a beautiful woman, a little sad, a little scornful, with the faint lines of mockery about her curving lips, the world-weary light in her distant eyes, and the fresh, ingenuous girl with whom he had been bandying pleasantries during the last few hours. He had felt it unknowingly. He realized it now, and the thought of what it might mean made him catch at his breath like a drowning man. Then she came in.
He heard her gay laughter outside, a backward word flung to one of the tennis players, as she stepped in through the window, her cheeks still flushed, and her eyes aglow.
"We really ought to watch this set," she declared. "That is, if you are not too much absorbed in my handiwork. What have you got there?"
He held it out to her with a valiant attempt at unconcern.
"Do you mind telling me who this is?" he asked.
She glanced at it carelessly enough, but at once her whole expression changed. The smile left her lips, her eyes filled with trouble.
"Where did you find it?" she asked, in a low tone.
"In the album," he answered. "It was loose between the pages."
She took it gently from his fingers, and crossing the room locked it in her desk.
