"Delft, sir, genuine Delft,” the little man was saying as he held up some hideous blue plates, when Caverley interrupted him with ail exclamation of surprise. His eye had fallen on a silver hand-mirror, and he picked it up and examined it carefully.
"The very thing," he said to himself; then turning to his self-appointed guide, "How much?"
Everything was to be sold at the auction, the man explained—still, if the gentleman desired it very much and found it inconvenient to come in the afternoon—
"I do," said Caverley shortly. "How much?"
How much did he think it worth to him? Caverley named a price and the other made haste to take him up. A few moments later, with his purchase in his pocket, he was hurrying up the street.
It was a queer little mirror. The back was of oxidized silver, quaintly embossed—an impossible Cupid reaching out for a laurel wreath which completely surrounded him. Several sprays of laurel trailed from the ends of the wreath and these were twisted round and round to form the handle. A unique idea and rather a good bit of work, Caverley thought, as he examined the mirror carefully at his apartments. Assuredly it would bring the sparkle to her eyes, and assuredly she would tell him what a dear old boy he was to take so much trouble in her behalf. The Cupid was such a fat, contented-looking little god, that he laughed aloud! Symbolical, too, it seemed to him, for theirs had been a contented affair of the heart. Surely it was the very thing for a present to her.
For some time he sat turning the mirror about in his hands, making jocular comments now and then to the enwreathed Cupid. Then suddenly he sat bolt upright with a strange expression on his face. He had glanced into the mirror and the reflection he beheld there was not that of his own features. He could scarcely believe his sight. He looked again. The face he beheld was one from which he shrank; a strong, firm face it might have been at some time, but now it was disfigured by hideous scars. He laid the mirror on a nearby table and sprang from his chair. He knew it was weakness, but for the life of him he could not help walking over to the glass on his shaving table and glancing into it. It
