He who stood before him, nevertheless, was but a boy of about his own age and height, though more slightly built. For Graham, however, he was beautiful as an angel――was, in truth, a kind of angel, a ‘son of the morning.’ His skin――contrasting with the broad linen collar he wore――was of that dark, olive-brown hue which the Greeks, in their own boys, believed to be indicative of courage; his eyes were blue and dark and clear, his nose straight, his mouth extraordinarily fine, delicate; his dark hair, soft and silky, falling in a single great wave over his shapely forehead. ‘Who are you?’ Graham faltered. The boy began to blush a little――then to smile. ‘My name is Brocklehurst――Harold Brocklehurst.... Why do you look at me so strangely?’ His question made Graham suddenly conscious of his rudeness, and also of the childishness, the impossibility of the idea that had floated into his mind. ‘I did not mean to,’ he stammered, covered with confusion. ‘I beg your pardon.’ Then, with his eyes lowered: ‘You remind me very much of some one I know.... It is rather queer ... and ... and you took me by surprise.... I was so unprepared.’ ‘Unprepared!’ ‘Yes.... I was thinking of him――of the other――when you came up.... You don’t understand, of course. It is the extraordinary likeness――and it _is_ extraordinary’――he could not help looking at the boy again. ‘But likeness to whom?’ Brocklehurst wondered. ‘And why should it startle you?’ ‘Ah, to whom?’ Graham echoed enigmatically. His strange fancy still hung there in the air before him, hung about his interlocutor like a light, like a blaze of dazzling sunlight. ‘I don’t know,’ he softly added. ‘You don’t know!’ Brocklehurst paused, just a little taken aback. Then as he noticed the other’s seriousness he began to laugh. ‘Aren’t you a rather queer fellow?’ he suggested with a kind of charming easiness. ‘We are both a little queer,’ Graham answered. ‘At least ... I beg your pardon――――’ ‘Oh, it’s all right.’ ‘You see――you see I have known you for so long that――that――――’ His explanation, whatever it might have been, died away. ‘You mean you have _really_ known me. Then you must have met me somewhere before to-day!’ He tried to recall the occasion, but without success. ‘It was not here,’ Graham went on slowly, gravely. ‘I――I can’t tell you.’ He looked with a wistful, questioning helplessness into his companion’s face. ‘If I were to tell you, should you laugh?’ ‘I don’t know. At any rate you _want_ to tell me?’ ‘Yes, I want to.’ ‘Well, fire away then.’ ‘It is something that is rather hard for me to say.... It will make you think me so childish, so silly.... You see you couldn’t very well believe it unless――unless you yourself were to remember, just as I do――unless it were true――――’ Brocklehurst glanced at him quickly. ‘Remember having seen _you_ somewhere? But I may easily have forgotten. As a matter of fact I have forgotten――so now.’