deeply-lined face was a complex of many emotions as he did so.
In the very act of taking leave, her eyes, magnetized by the room itself, strayed round it almost wistfully. Somehow it meant so much that they hardly knew how to tear themselves away. Involuntarily the Duke's eyes followed hers to a masterpiece among masterpieces on the farther wall. He could trace all that was in her mind, and the knowledge seemed to increase his pain and his perplexity.
"There's something wonderful in this room," she said, half to herself. "Something one can't put into words. It's like nothing else. I suppose it's a kind of harmony."
The Duke didn't speak, but slowly brought back his eyes to look at her. His favorite room held treasures of many kinds, yet as he well knew he was wantonly casting away a gem rarer than any in his collection. His eyes were upon a noble profile instinct with the dignity of an old race. Here was artistry surer, even more exquisite than Corot's. He could not repress a sigh of vexation.
Unwilling to part with her, he still detained her even when she had turned to go. "One moment, Miss Lawrence," he said. "Do these things speak to you?" Near his elbow was a wonderful cabinet of Chinese lacquer which housed a collection of old French snuffboxes. He opened it for her inspection, and with a little air of connoisseurship she gazed at the rarities within.
"They are lovely," she said eagerly.
"Honor me by choosing one as a token of my gratitude."
She hesitated to take him at his word, but he was
