She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced preparations for a hurried departure. “Now it seems I am driving you away,” sighed the stranger. “Having been called a ‘vulgar snob,’” retorted the lady with some heat, “I think it about time I went.” “The words were your own,” the stranger reminded her. “Whatever I may have thought,” remarked the indignant dame, “no lady--least of all in the presence of a total stranger--would have called herself--” The poor dame paused, bewildered. “There is something very curious the matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand,” she explained, “I seem quite unable to avoid insulting myself.” Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger good-night, hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The stranger, hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind her. “Tell me,” laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, “how did you manage to do it? I should like to know.” “How did I do what?” inquired the stranger. “Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?” “How well you play!” observed the stranger. “I knew you had genius for music the moment I saw you.” “How could you tell?” “It is written so clearly in your face.” The girl laughed, well pleased. “You seem to have lost no time in studying my face.” “It is a beautiful and interesting face,” observed the stranger. She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met. “You can read faces?” “Yes.” “Tell me, what else do you read in mine?” “Frankness, courage--” “Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted.” It was odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. “Tell me the reverse side.” “I see no reverse side,” replied the stranger. “I see but a fair girl, bursting into noble womanhood.” “And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness, of--” An angry laugh escaped her lips. “And you are a reader of faces!” “A reader of faces.” The stranger smiled. “Do you know what is written upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is almost fierce, scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure, contempt of all things that are contemptible--especially of such things as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read aright?” I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried from the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is in them when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours? The idea occurred to her: “Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to you during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?” “The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your mother principally.” “I am sorry,” returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the question. “I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the first evening!”