Her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its mournful look. “Wish I could make her look happy!” he thought. “A pretty face, but sad!” And taking up his can of hot water he went out into the gallery.

“This is June’s room,” he said, opening the next door and putting the can down; “I think you’ll find everything.” And closing the door behind her he went back to his own room. Brushing his hair with his great ebony brushes, and dabbing his forehead with eau de cologne, he mused. She had come so strangely⁠—a sort of visitation; mysterious, even romantic, as if his desire for company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was which fulfilled that sort of thing. And before the mirror he straightened his still-upright figure, passed the brushes over his great white moustache, touched up his eyebrows with eau de cologne, and rang the bell.

“I forgot to let them know that I have a lady to dinner with me. Let cook do something extra, and tell Beacon to have the landau and pair at half-past ten to drive her back to Town tonight. Is Miss Holly asleep?”