om his
square forehead as to remind you of a helmet, except that it rippled all
over. And he had the most appealing eyes I ever saw.

They were not dark, tragic ones like Roger Fane's. I thought that when
he was well and happy, they must have been full of light and joy. They
were slate-gray with thick black lashes, true Celtic eyes: but they were
dull and tired now, not sad, only devoid of interest in anything.

It wasn't flattering that they should be devoid of interest in me. I am
used to having men's eyes light up with a gleam of surprise when they
see me for the first time. This man's eyes didn't. I seemed to read in
them: "Yes, I suppose you're very pretty. But that's nothing to me, and
I hope you don't want me to flirt with you, because I haven't the energy
or even the wish."

I'm sure that, vaguely, this was about what was in his mind, and that he
intended getting away from me as soon as would be decently polite after
finishing his errand. Still, I wasn't in the least annoyed. I was sorry
for him--not because he didn't want to be bothered with me, but because
he didn't want to be bothered with anything. Millionaire or pauper, I
didn't care. I was determined to brighten him, in spite of himself. He
was too dear and delightful a fellow not to be happy with somebody, some
day. I couldn't sit still and let him sink down and down into the
depths. But I should have to go carefully, or do him more harm than
good. I could see that. If I attempted to be amusing he would crawl
away, a battered wreck.

What I did was to show no particular interest in him. I took the tiny
parcel Mrs. Carstairs had ordered him to bring, and asked casually if
he'd care to stop in my flat till his man had finished unpacking.

"I don't know how _you_ feel," I said, "but I always hate the first hour
in a new place, with a servant fussing about, opening and shutting
drawers and wardrobes. I loathe things that squeak."

"So do I," he answered, dreamily. "Any sort of noise."

"I shall be having tea in a few minutes," I mentioned. "If you don't
mind looking at magazines or something while I open Mrs. Carstairs'
parcel, and write to her, stay if you care to. I should be pleased. But
don't feel you'll be rude to say 'no.' Do as you like."

He stayed, probably because he was in a nice easy chair, and it was
simpler to sit still than get up, so long as he needn't make
conversation. I left him there, while I went to the far end of the room,
where