scious several times that he was looking at her rather than at the pictures, and that there was something distantly familiar to her about him. She stood looking at him, her blue eyes still misty with tears, her face perfectly pale under the thick bandeaux of her hair. He seemed slightly embarrassed, but there was such distinct recognition in his glance that she bowed to him mechanically. He came up to her at once, addressing her by her name, and Teresa gave him her hand.
"But you don't remember me, I see," he said, smiling.
He was of medium height, with a wiry, soldierly look. His thin face was deeply sunburnt; with its grave, intense eyes and impassive mouth that the slight black moustache did not hide, it was a sufficiently uncommon one; but Teresa could not place it, quite evidently.
"My name is Crayven—we met several years ago in New York," he explained.
"Oh, I remember perfectly—of course!" Teresa cried. "First at my house and then at dinner somewhere"
"And then I went to see you, next day, and you were not in. You had told me I might come."
"Had I? Why wasn't I in, then? I can't remember, "it's so long ago."
"More than three years. That was in April,
