and again she dropped something that had a sifted, selected
air--the sound of an impression at first hand. She had no imagination,
but she had added up her feelings, some of her reflections, about life.
Lyon talked of the old days in Munich, reminded her of incidents,
pleasures and pains, asked her about her father and the others; and she
told him in return that she was so impressed with his own fame, his
brilliant position in the world, that she had not felt very sure he
would speak to her or that his little sign at table was meant for her.
This was plainly a perfectly truthful speech--she was incapable of any
other--and he was affected by such humility on the part of a woman whose
grand line was unique. Her father was dead; one of her brothers was in
the navy and the other on a ranch in America; two of her sisters were
married and the youngest was just coming out and very pretty. She didn't
mention her stepmother. She asked him about his own personal history and
he said that the principal thing that had happened to him was that he
had never married.

'Oh, you ought to,' she answered. 'It's the best thing.'

'I like that--from you!' he returned.

'Why not from me? I am very happy.'

'That's just why I can't be. It's cruel of you to praise your state. But
I have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your husband. We
had a good bit of talk in the other room.'

'You must know him better--you must know him really well,' said Mrs.
Capadose.

'I am sure that the further you go the more you find. But he makes a
fine show, too.'

She rested her good gray eyes on Lyon. 'Don't you think he's handsome?'

'Handsome and clever and entertaining. You see I'm generous.'

'Yes; you must know him well,' Mrs. Capadose repeated.

'He has seen a great deal of life,' said her companion.

'Yes, we have been in so many places. You must see my little girl. She
is nine years old--she's too beautiful.'

'You must bring her to my studio some day--I should like to paint her.'

'Ah, don't speak of that,' said Mrs. Capadose. 'It reminds me of
something so distressing.'

'I hope you don't mean when _you_ used to sit to me--though that may
well have bored you.'

'It's not what you did--it's what we have done. It's a confession I must
make--it's a weight on my mind! I mean about that beautiful picture you
gave me--it used to be so much admired. When you come to see me in
London (I count on your doing that very soon) I shall s