I entered the little drawing-room. It was empty. The blinds were half drawn, and the window stood wide open. Signs of her recent presence were visible in the garden hat upon the sofa, in some drawing materials on the table, above all, in the soft peculiar perfume which I associated with her. She was such a strange woman that I thought she might have hidden on hearing my knock; and I looked behind the sofa, and the door, and in the corner protected by the piano, for her. Then I drew to the table to see what she was drawing. It was a man's head, unfinished though complete enough to offer a good likeness. The hair was dark, the nose straight, the mouth firm, the eye sufficiently large. The slight line of whisker was not shaded. This sketch dissipated all my nervousness. I looked up with a smile, and met her eyes peering at me from the door. "If I had known it was you I should have hid that," said she, coming forward in a somewhat defiant manner, but with a delicate pink on her cheek. "Did you not want me to see it?" "No." "Why? It is charmingly done--the very image of me." She came round to where I stood. "Go and stand opposite," she said, "and then I shall be able to tell." I did as she bade me. "Hold your face in profile." I looked at the wall. She was silent for some moments. "Yes. It is not bad. My memory must be good." "Mrs. Fraser," said I, "what made you take my face for a subject?" "Are you annoyed?" "No; and you don't think me annoyed?" "Oh, I fancied you would think I had not flattered you enough." "But what made you take my face?" "Because it suited me." I placed a chair for her and seated myself at her side. "Mrs. Fraser, I know your Christian name--it is Geraldine. May I call you Geraldine?" "How did you know that?" she asked suddenly. "I read it at the corner of those drawings there." She laughed. "May I call you Geraldine?" "If you like. Do you think it a pretty name?" "A sweet name. Now, Geraldine, will you tell me what made you take my face for a sketch?" The utterance of her name pleased her. She looked up at me with lighted eyes. "Have I not told you?" "No. Your answer was evasive. I want the truth." "I wished to see if I could hit off its expression with my pencil." "And you have drawn a good likeness. But I miss one thing." "What is that?" she asked, getting up and looking at the drawing. "Look at those eyes," I answered, bending over her and pointing. "Well; they are bold--do you mean they are not large enough?" "Oh, they are large enough. But they do not tell the truth." "What should they tell?" "My love, Geraldine." She did not answer. I passed my arm round her waist. "Do you see what I mean?" She raised her eyes to my face. I searched them; they were calm, and pensive and soft, but radiant too, with a light that was new to them. "I understand," she whispered. I led her to a chair and knelt by her that I might see her face, holding her hand in both mine.