this was the genius who would have presided over his household if he had
happened to find her at home upon either of those two momentous
occasions, or if he had happened to discover her in Europe on that
eventful trip and had happened to tell her of his devotion, and,
incidentally, she had happened to respond to his declaration of undying
affection.

His inspection was as complete and analytic as the distance between the
two tables would permit. She was a fascinating woman, he acknowledged,
and yet--she was so different from what he had pictured her. The wife
with whom he had mentally lived these twenty years he himself had
created out of the all-too-scanty materials of memory, added to
substantially by what his imagination had skilfully selected of what he
thought she ought to be. He had not been more successful in his creation
than Nature herself, he was forced to admit, but while looking at Mrs.
Thatcher he experienced the mortifying sensation of being a
self-convicted bigamist.

Curiously, he had never thought of her as growing older along with him.
His glance returned to the daughter's face, and in it he found a closer
semblance to what his mind had pictured. She was more mature than her
mother had been, yet she possessed many of the same physical
characteristics. Was it possible that she might have been his daughter?
Here came the third distinct shock. For the first time he had something
against which to measure his own age, and involuntarily he touched his
heavy head of hair to reassure himself that baldness, that advertisement
of advancing years, had not overtaken him in the moment.

"Well," Cosden interrupted his reveries; "I'm waiting to hear your first
impressions."

Huntington started guiltily, as if his friend had witnessed the
gymnastics his mind had executed. It was natural that Cosden, being
nearest to him, should come in for the force of the reaction.

"How do you suppose I can express an opinion on a girl half-way across a
room the size of this?" he answered with as much asperity as ever crept
into the evenness of his tone.

Cosden looked up surprised. "Why, Monty!" he expostulated, "don't get
peevish!"

"Don't bother me with foolish questions," was the ungracious rejoinder.
"I'm studying the situation. Later I'll give you my impressions."

"But you've seen her," Cosden persisted. "What do you think of the
perspective?"

"She is very young," Huntington replied, regaining his composure and