The girl lifted her eyes. The Colonel held his breath as the long lashes were raised to his level. Even to an ordinary observer that sudden revelation of her eyes seemed to transform her face with subtle witchery. They were large, brown, and soft, yet filled with an extraordinary penetration and prescience. They were the eyes of an experienced woman of thirty fixed in the face of a child. What else the Colonel saw there Heaven only knows! He felt his inmost secrets plucked from him—his whole soul laid bare—his vanity, belligerency, gallantry—even his medieval chivalry, penetrated, and yet illuminated, in that single glance. And when the eyelids fell again, he felt that a greater part of himself had been swallowed up in them. “I beg your pardon,” he said, hurriedly. “I mean—this matter may be arranged—er—amicably. My interest with—and as you wisely say—my—er—knowledge of my client—er—Mr. Hotchkiss—may affect—a compromise.” “And _damages_,” said the young girl, readdressing her parasol, as if she had never looked up. The Colonel winced. “And—er—undoubtedly _compensation_—if you do not press a fulfilment of the promise. Unless,” he said, with an attempted return to his former easy gallantry, which, however, the recollection of her eyes made difficult, “it is a question of—er—the affections?” “Which?” said his fair client, softly. “If you still love him?” explained the Colonel, actually blushing. Zaidee again looked up; again taking the Colonel’s breath away with eyes that expressed not only the fullest perception of what he had _said_, but of what he thought and had not said, and with an added subtle suggestion of what he might have thought. “That’s tellin’,” she said, dropping her long lashes again. The Colonel laughed vacantly. Then feeling himself growing imbecile, he forced an equally weak gravity. “Pardon me—I understand there are no letters; may I know the way in which he formulated his declaration and promises?” “Hymn-books,” said the girl, briefly. “I beg your pardon,” said the mystified lawyer. “Hymn-books—marked words in them with pencil—and passed ’em on to me,” repeated Zaidee. “Like ‘love,’ ‘dear,’ ‘precious,’ ‘sweet,’ and ‘blessed,’” she added, accenting each word with a push of her parasol on the carpet. “Sometimes a whole line outer Tate and Brady—and _Solomon’s Song_, you know, and sich.” “I believe,” said the Colonel, loftily, “that the—er—phrases of sacred psalmody lend themselves to the language of the affections. But in regard to the distinct promise of marriage—was there—er—no _other_ expression?” “Marriage Service in the prayer-book—lines and words outer that—all marked,” said Zaidee. The Colonel nodded naturally and approvingly. “Very good. Were others cognizant of this? Were there any witnesses?”