"Not a bad face," he reflected, surveying it in the dusty speckled glass. "A trifle weak perhaps. I _am_ a trifle weak; that is so. But, on the whole, the face of a gentleman and a decent fellow. And not devoid of intelligence.... Interesting, to see one's own face. Especially in this odd glass. Now I must be off. Hat, stick, overcoat, scarf--that is everything." He walked down to the Eaux-Vives jetty, where a smart electric launch did indeed await him, and in it a young lady of handsome appearance, who regarded him with friendly interest and said, in pronounced American with an Italian accent, "I'm real pleased to meet you, Mr. Beechtree. Step right in. We'll start at once." Henry stepped right in, and sat down by this prepossessing girl. "I must introduce myself," she said. "My name is Gina Longfellow, and I'm Dr. Franchi's niece." "What excellent English you talk," said Henry politely. "American," she corrected him. "My father was a native of Joliet, Ill. Are you acquainted with the Middle West?" "I've travelled there," said Henry, and repressed a shudder, for he had found the Middle West deplorable. He preferred South America. "I am related to the poet," said Miss Longfellow. "That great poet who wrote _Hiawatha_, _Evangeline_, and _The Psalm of Life_. Possibly you came across him out in the States?" "No," said Henry. "I fancy he was even then dead. You are a descendant of his?" "A descendant--yes. I remember now; he died, poor nonno.... The lake pleases you, Mr. Beechtree?" "Indeed, yes. It is very beautiful." Miss Longfellow's fine dark eyes had a momentary flicker of resentment. Most young men looked at her, but Mr. Beechtree at the lake, with his melancholy brooding eyes. Henry liked handsome young women well enough, but he admired scenery more. The smooth shimmer of the twilight waters, still holding the flash of sunset, the twinkling city of lights they were swiftly leaving behind them at the lake's head, the smaller constellations of the lakeside villages on either hand--these made on Henry, whose æsthetic nerve was sensitive, an unsteadying impression. Miss Longfellow recalled his attention. "Do you think the League will last?" she inquired sharply. "Do you like Geneva? Do you think the League will be moved somewhere else? Isn't it a real pity the French are so obstructionist? Will the Americans come in?" Henry adjusted his monocle and looked at her in some surprise. "Well," she said impatiently, "I guess you're used to those questions by now." "But you've left out the latest," Henry said. "What do you think can have happened to Svensen?" "Ah, there you have us all guessing," she amiably returned. "Poor Svensen. Who'd have thought it of him?" "Thought what?" "Why, this. He always seemed such a white man. My, isn't it queer what people will do?" Henry, who had been brought up on Dr. Svensen's narrations of his Arctic explorations, and greatly revered him, said, "But I don't believe he's done anything."