“I discovered,” he said, “that you and Mrs. Clarendon were alone, or of course I couldn’t have ventured. If you knew what I’ve gone through in the last month, since I was talking with you in this room! And not an hour but your voice has been present with me. Do you know that your voice is unique? I have heard voices more musical--don’t think I’m talking mere nonsensical flattery--but never one that dwelt with me for long after, as yours does. I suppose it is half your manner of expressing yourself--your frank directness.” Whether he was sincere or not, it was impossible at least to gather evidence of insincerity from his words and the way in which they were uttered. There was no touch of a wheedling note, not an accent which jarred on the sufficiently discriminating ear of the listener. He seemed more than half regardless of the effect his speech might produce; the last sentence came forth in a rather absent way, whilst his eyes were apparently occupying themselves with a picture hanging near him. “What was it you wished to say to me, Mr. Lacour?” Ada asked, when she had let a moment of silence pass. She still stood in the same attitude, but was now looking at him, her hard features studiously impassive. “To say good-bye to you, and--and to thank you.” It was uttered with an effort, as if the tone of mere frankness had been rather hard to hit, and might easily have slid to one of softer meaning. “To thank me for what, pray?” She was smiling slightly, perhaps to ease her features.