ything objectionable in the gloomy
and hideous evening costume of a gentleman in the nineteenth century.
A handsome man is, to their eyes, more seductive than ever in the
contemptible black coat and the stiff white cravat which he wears in
common with the servant who waits on him at table. After a stolen glance
at Romayne, Stella lost all confidence in herself--she began turning
over the photographs on the table.

The momentary silence which followed their first greeting became
intolerable to her. Rather than let it continue, she impulsively
confessed the uppermost idea in her mind when she entered the room.

"I thought I heard my name when I came in," she said. "Were you and Lord
Loring speaking of me?"

Romayne owned without hesitation that they had been speaking of her.

She smiled and turned over another photograph. But when did sun-pictures
ever act as a restraint on a woman's curiosity? The words passed her
lips in spite of her. "I suppose I mustn't ask what you were saying?"

It was impossible to answer this plainly without entering into
explanations from which Romayne shrank. He hesitated.

She turned over another photograph. "I understand," she said. "You were
talking of my faults." She paused, and stole another look at him. "I
will try to correct my faults, if you will tell me what they are."

Romayne felt that he had no alternative but to tell the truth--under
certain reserves. "Indeed you are wrong," he said. "We were talking of
the influence of a tone or a look on a sensitive person."

"The influence on Me?" she asked.

"No. The influence which You might exercise on another person."

She knew perfectly well that he was speaking of himself. But she was
determined to feel the pleasure of making him own it.

"If I have any such influence as you describe," she began, "I hope it is
for good?"

"Certainly for good."

"You speak positively, Mr. Romayne. Almost as positively--only that can
hardly be--as if you were speaking from experience."

He might still have evaded a direct reply, if she had been content with
merely saying this. But she looked at him while she spoke. He answered
the look.

"Shall I own that you are right?" he said. "I was thinking of my own
experience yesterday."

She returned to the photographs. "It sounds impossible," she rejoined,
softly. There was a pause. "Was it anything I said?" she asked.

"No. It was only when you looked at me. But for that look, I don't think
I sh