h no one, and which effectually spoiled the last few days
of my London visit.

The sight of Leah had somewhat disturbed me. It had brought back memories
of the perplexities and mysteries of Gladwyn. Strange to say, I saw her
again the very next day.

Mr. Tudor was calling at the door to inquire after Jill: he had his bag
in his hand, and was on his way to the station. I was just going out to
call on Lesbia, and we walked a few yards together. Just as I was bidding
him good-bye, two women passed us: as I looked at them casually, I saw
Leah's flickering light-coloured eyes; she was looking in my direction,
but, though I nodded to her, she did not appear to recognise me. The
other woman was a stranger.

I was sitting alone on the balcony that afternoon. Aunt Philippa and Jill
and Miss Gillespie were driving. I took advantage of their absence and
the unusual quiet of the house to finish a book in which I was much
interested.

I was very fond of this balcony seat: the awning protected me from the
hot June sun, and the flower-boxes at my feet were sweet with mignonette.
I could see without being seen, and the cool glimpses of the green Park
were pleasant on this hot afternoon.

The adjoining house was unoccupied: it was therefore with feelings of
discomfort that I heard the sound of workmen moving about the premises,
and by and by the smell of fresh paint made me put down my book with
suppressed annoyance.

A house-painter was standing very near me, painting the outside sashes of
the window: he had his back turned to me, and was whistling to himself in
the careless way peculiar to his class. It was a clear, sweet whistling,
and I listened to it with pleasure.

A sudden noise in the street caused him to look round, and then he saw
me, and stopped whistling.

Where had I seen that face? It seemed familiar to me. Of whom did that
young house-painter remind me? Could I have seen him at St. Thomas's
Hospital? Was it some patient whose name I had forgotten during my year's
nursing? I had had more than one house-painter on my list.

I was tormented by the idea that I ought to recognise the face before
me, and yet recognition eluded me. I felt baffled and perplexed by some
subtile fancied resemblance. As for the young painter himself, he looked
at me quietly for a moment, as though I were a stranger, touched his cap,
and went on painting. When he had finished his job, he went inside, and
I heard him whistling again as he m