nces at Eleanor over her paper,
struck by the strange pallor of the young face, the nervous twitching
of the mouth, and tear-dimmed eyes.

The stranger leans forward suddenly with an abrupt question:

"May I see that photograph?"

[Illustration: "May I see that photograph?"]

Eleanor starts in trepidation; her thoughts have been so far away that
they are brought back to the present with an effort.

She sees before her a face lined more deeply with sorrow than time, a
woman who might still have considerable beauty had she not dyed her
hair in her youth and ruined her complexion with cosmetics.

The request does not offend Eleanor, for Mrs. Roche is easily won by a
kind look or a smile.

She hands the photograph across, watching the stranger's expression.

"What a handsome face!" she exclaims, with a little gasp of admiration.

"Yes," sighs Eleanor.

"I never saw such mesmeric eyes, and yet they are soft, though
powerful. I should say that man must have broken many a heart with
those eyes."

She looks shrewdly at Mrs. Roche as she speaks.

"If he loves _you_," she continues, "he will be true."

Eleanor's head droops.

"You love him," said the stranger, reading the tell-tale blush. "Are
you going to marry him, my dear?"

"No," falters Eleanor, "I wish I could."

"Ah! I thought so. Forgive me for my curiosity, but your face
interested me, and I am not conventional. I always speak if I wish,
though it offends some people. To me the fashion of introducing seems
absurd. Here we are all jumbled up together in the same little world,
yet everyone is a mass of reserve, a mind in armour, they never say
what they mean, seldom speak from the heart. One is in the dust, and
another on the throne, and they all die in like manner, to be buried
most probably by a man they would not have dared address without an
introduction, measured by an undertaker they could not have been seen
walking with in the street, and to mix with thousands of spirits whose
ancestors and pedigree are unknown."

Eleanor listens in surprise.

"Are you uncertain about your future?" the stranger asks.

"A little," falters Eleanor nervously.

"Then let me look at your hand, I may be able to help you. No, the
left hand please," as Mrs. Roche tremblingly unbuttons her right glove.
"Ah!" as the gold wedding-ring is revealed, "I was afraid so. I see it
all now; this (pointing to the photograph) is _not_ your husband."

Eleanor tries to