On went the story. The fire crackled, reflecting itself in mirrors and polished wood and many small window panes. Outside, the rain had ceased, but the wind and the river murmured loudly, and the shadows of the night were gathering. When the narrative was ended, he who had spoken and he who had listened sat staring at the fire. “A pretty story!” said the Colonel at last. “Dick Steele should have had it; ’twould have looked vastly well over against his Inkle and Yarico. There the maid the savior, here the man; there perfidy, here plain honesty; there for the woman a fate most tragical, here”-- “Here?” said Haward, as the other paused. The master of Westover took out his snuffbox. “And here the continued kindness of a young and handsome preserver,” he said suavely, and extended the box to his host. “You are mistaken,” said Haward. He rose, and stood leaning against the mantel, his eyes upon the older man’s somewhat coldly smiling countenance. “She is as innocent, as high of soul, and as pure of heart as--as Evelyn.” The Colonel clicked to the lid of his box. “You will be so good as to leave my daughter’s name out of the conversation.” “As you please,” Haward answered, with hauteur. Another silence, broken by the guest. “Why did you hang that kit-kat of yourself behind the door, Haward?” he asked amiably. “’Tis too fine a piece to be lost in shadow. I would advise a change with yonder shepherdess.” “I do not know why,” said Haward restlessly. “A whim. Perhaps by nature I court shadows and dark corners.” “That is not so,” Byrd replied quietly. He had turned in his chair, the better to observe the distant portrait that was now lightened, now darkened, as the flames rose and fell. “A speaking likeness,” he went on, glancing from it to the original and back again. “I ever thought it one of Kneller’s best. The portrait of a gentleman. Only--you have noticed, I dare say, how in the firelight familiar objects change aspect many times?--only just now it seemed to me that it lost that distinction”-- “Well?” said Haward, as he paused. The Colonel went on slowly: “Lost that distinction, and became the portrait of”-- “Well? Of whom?” asked Haward, and, with his eyes shaded by his hand, gazed not at the portrait, but at the connoisseur in gold and russet. “Of a dirty tradesman,” said the master of Westover lightly. “In a word, of an own brother to Mr. Thomas Inkle.” A dead silence; then Haward spoke calmly: “I will not take offense, Colonel Byrd. Perhaps I should not take it even were it not as my guest and in my drawing-room that you have so spoken. We will, if you please, consign my portrait to the obscurity from which it has been dragged. In good time here comes Juba to light the candles and set the shadows fleeing.”