Breaking a long silence, I said, as casually as I could do it: “I met Sterling Barry’s daughter the other day—Miss Regina Barry, her name is, isn’t it?” Vague, restless movements preceded the laconic response, “Where?” “She came to the memorial with Mrs. Grace.” Hearing him strike a match, I knew he was making an effort at sang-froid by lighting a cigarette. “Did you—did you—think her—pretty?” “Pretty wouldn’t be the word.” “Beautiful?” “Nor beautiful.” “What then?” “No word that I know would be adequate. You might say fascinating if it hadn’t been vulgarized; and chic would be worse.” “She’s tremendously animated—and vivid.” “She has the most living eyes and mouth I’ve ever seen in a human being. I’ve never seen a face so aglow with mind, emotion, and color. She’s all flame, but a flame like that of the burning bush, afire from a force within.” He spoke bitterly. “And people talk about that being conquered!” To lead him further I said, “Has any one talked of it?” “Didn’t you know?” “How should I know? You—you’ve never told me.” “Well, I’m—I’m telling you now.” My sympathy was quite genuine. “Thanks, old boy. I can see—I can see how hard it must have gone with you.” “How hard it’s going, Frank. There’s a difference in tense. If you knew her better—” “I’m not sure that I care to know her better; and that, old man, isn’t said out of rudeness. I don’t belong to her world any more; and I’d rather not try to get back into it.” “Oh, get out! As a matter of fact I’m going to take you to see her.” “You needn’t do that, because she asked me to come.” “Right off the bat like that? The first time she’d ever seen you?” “It wasn’t exactly that. She knew my brother Jack; and my cousin, Annette van Elstine, is a friend of hers.” “Annette van Elstine is your cousin? Why didn’t you tell me that before?” “Oh, for reasons. I should think you’d see. Why should I claim Annette as a cousin? One of the smartest women in New York, I’m told she is.” “One of the very smartest. She could do anything for you.” “So there you are! When you think of what I was when you first met me—what I am still, really—” It seemed to me, however, that I had found my opening, so I went on in another vein. “I met Annette’s father in the street one day, not long ago, and he went by without recognizing me. Have I changed very much—since the spring?” “I should know you anywhere, Frank; but Coningsby and Christian were saying last week that they wouldn’t take you to be the same man any more.” “Did they mean morally—or physically?” “Oh, they meant in looks. They said they’d never seen any one in whom good clothes and a straight life had so thoroughly created a new man.” “So that you think my uncle might reasonably—” “Pass you without recognition? Oh, Lord, yes! Besides, your mustache changes you a lot. I’d shave that off again if I were you; and you want to get back to your old self.”