d think of to say, for I did not
understand why she should have told me.

"If you don't mind, I should like you to come down to dinner. There will
be only Mr. Vanderbridge and myself."

"Of course I will come if you wish it." I couldn't very well refuse to
do what she asked me, yet I told myself, while I answered, that if I had
known she expected me to make one of the family, I should never, not
even at twice the salary, have taken the place. It didn't take me a
minute to go over my slender wardrobe in my mind and realize that I had
nothing to wear that would look well enough.

"I can see you don't like it," she added after a moment, almost
wistfully, "but it won't be often. It is only when we are dining alone."

This, I thought, was even queerer than the request--or command--for I
knew from her tone, just as plainly as if she had told me in words, that
she did not wish to dine alone with her husband.

"I am ready to help you in any way--in any way that I can," I replied,
and I was so deeply moved by her appeal that my voice broke in spite of
my effort to control it. After my lonely life I dare say I should have
loved any one who really needed me, and from the first moment that I
read the appeal in Mrs. Vanderbridge's face I felt that I was willing to
work my fingers to the bone for her. Nothing that she asked of me was
too much when she asked it in that voice, with that look.

"I am glad you are nice," she said, and for the first time she smiled--a
charming, girlish smile with a hint of archness. "We shall get on
beautifully, I know, because I can talk to you. My last secretary was
English, and I frightened her almost to death whenever I tried to talk
to her." Then her tone grew serious. "You won't mind dining with us.
Roger--Mr. Vanderbridge--is the most charming man in the world."

"Is that his picture?"

"Yes, the one in the Florentine frame. The other is my brother. Do you
think we are alike?"

"Since you've told me, I notice a likeness." Already I had picked up the
Florentine frame from the desk, and was eagerly searching the features
of Mr. Vanderbridge. It was an arresting face, dark, thoughtful,
strangely appealing, and picturesque--though this may have been due, of
course, to the photographer. The more I looked at it, the more there
grew upon me an uncanny feeling of familiarity; but not until the next
day, while I was still trying to account for the impression that I had
seen the picture before, did