And Arthur was not coming back just now, for only after all her finery had been bought, on that very day she had received a letter from him dated from Southampton, telling her that he had joined a friend who was about to start for Norway in his yacht, and that he would be absent not less than two months. This was a sore disappointment, but a note from Mr. Travers accompanied Eden's letter, sent in the first place to Lincoln's Inn, which gave her something to expect and think about. The lawyer wrote to say that he would call to see her at twelve o'clock on the following morning. Fan, in her new dress, and with a slight flush caused by excitement, was waiting for him when he arrived. He was a tall spare man, over seventy years old, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, and hair and whiskers almost white. He had an aquiline nose and a firm mouth and chin, and yet the expression was far from severe, and under his broad, much-lined forehead the deep-set clear blue eyes looked kindly to the girl. When in repose there was an expression of weariness on his grey face, and a far-off look in the eyes, like that of one who gazes on a distant prospect shrouded in mist or low-trailing clouds. He had thought and wrought much, and perhaps, unlike that stern-browed and dauntless old chair-mender that Fan remembered so well, he was growing tired of his long life-journey, and not unwilling to see the end when there would be rest. But when talking or listening his face still showed animation, and was pleasant to look upon. Fan remembered certain words of her brother's, and felt that even if they had never been uttered, here was a man in whom she could trust implicitly. At first he did not say much, and after explaining the cause of his delay in visiting her, contented himself with listening and observing her quietly. At length, catching sight of the water-colour portrait of Fan, which was hanging on the wall, he got up from his seat and placed himself before it. “It is a very beautiful picture, Miss Eden,” he said with a smile, as Fan came to his side. “Yes, I think it is,” she returned naïvely. “But that is the artist's work. I never had a dress like that--I never had a dinner dress in my life. It was taken from a photograph, and the painter has made a fancy picture of it.” “It is very like you, Miss Eden--an excellent portrait, I think. Do you not know that you are beautiful?” “No, I did not know--at least, I was not sure. But I am glad you think so. I should like very much to be beautiful.” “Why?” he asked with a smile. “Because I am not clever, and perhaps it would not matter so much if people thought me pretty. They might like me for that.” He smiled again. “I do not know you very well yet, Miss Eden, but judging from the little I have seen of you and what I have heard, I think you have a great deal to make people like you.” “Thank you,” she returned a little sadly, remembering how her dearest friends had quickly grown tired of her.