It was at this moment that the reflection of the stranger’s face joined itself in the little mirror, as she made a little movement away from the Old Welsh dresser in the corner, to that of his own. She looked at the spurious Heppelwhite. Their eyes met in the hospitable glass. Gumbril smiled. The corners of the stranger’s wide mouth seemed faintly to move; like petals of the magnolia, her eyelids came slowly down over her slanting eyes. Gumbril turned from the reflection to the reality. “If you want to say Beaver,” he said, “you may.” The Complete Man had made his first speech. “I want to say nothing,” said the stranger. She spoke with a charming precision and distinctness, lingering with a pretty emphasis on the _n_ of nothing. “N—n—nothing”—it sounded rather final. She turned away, she moved on. But the Complete Man was not one to be put off by a mere ultimatum. “There,” he said, falling into step with her, “now I’ve had it—the deserved snub. Honour is saved, prestige duly upheld. Now we can get on with our conversation.” The Mild and Melancholy one stood by, gasping with astonished admiration. “You are v—very impertinent,” said the stranger, smiling and looking up from under the magnolia petals. “It is in my character,” said the Complete Man. “You mustn’t blame me. One cannot escape from one’s heredity; that’s one’s share of original sin.” “There is always grace,” said the stranger. Gumbril caressed his beard. “True,” he replied. “I advise you to pr—ray for it.” His prayer, the Mild and Melancholy one reflected, had already been answered. The original sin in him had been self-corrected. “Here is another antique shop,” said Gumbril. “Shall we stop and have a look at it?” The stranger glanced at him doubtfully. But he looked quite serious. They stopped. “How revolting this sham cottage furniture is,” Gumbril remarked. The shop, he noticed, was called ‘Ye Olde Farme House.’ The stranger, who had been on the point of saying how much she liked those lovely Old Welsh dressers, gave him her heartiest agreement. “So v—vulgar.” “So horribly refined. So refined and artistic.” She laughed on a descending chromatic scale. This was excitingly new. Poor Aunt Aggie with her Arts and Crafts, and her old English furniture. And to think she had taken them so seriously! She saw in a flash the fastidious lady that she now was—with Louis whatever-it-was furniture at home, and jewels, and young poets to tea, and real artists. In the past, when she had imagined herself entertaining real artists, it had always been among really artistic furniture. Aunt Aggie’s furniture. But now—no, oh no. This man was probably an artist. His beard; and that big black hat. But not poor; very well dressed. “Yes, it’s funny to think that there are people who call that sort of thing artistic. One’s quite s—sorry for them,” she added, with a little hiss. “You have a kind heart,” said Gumbril. “I’m glad to see that.”