But after a second glance I realized that the change in her attire was perhaps not the most striking change after all. The handsome face was still hard—still held something of dominance in its level glance—but the mouth had sagged a little, there were heavy lines under the eyes, the eyes themselves were less clear, and the whole face had deteriorated. It was much like approaching a house, handsome in the distance, only to find it deserted and falling into ruins on closer inspection. As a portrait painter, I have naturally studied faces. But I have never before or since seen so great a change in a face without a definite cause to which the change could be ascribed. It was not a good face, at all events, of that I was very certain. Mrs. Furneau smilingly signed to me to join her, and I was presently shaking hands with Mrs. Fawcette. Her manner was most cordial, but I did not feel that she was particularly glad to see me. “I hear you have been round the world since last we met,” I told her. “Oh, no! Just a fairly long stay in Egypt, a little off the beaten track.” “What enthusiasm!” I remarked. “Life is a poor shabby thing at best, so I don’t see that it matters much where we spend it. But I dare say you enjoyed yourself?” My manner was languid and my words evoked a glance of surprise from my hostess. But I imagine that she took it into her head that my attitude had some sort of a purpose—as indeed it had, though not the humorous one she suspected—for she smiled slightly and moved away. Mrs. Fawcette had found a seat on a sofa while we were talking, and I sat down beside her without an invitation. “Oh, yes, thank you, I enjoyed myself,” she answered a little sharply. “How extraordinary,” I answered; “I thought that faculty was—dead, in most of us.” She turned and stared at me, suspiciously. “Well, it isn’t dead in me, at all events!” she snapped; “although your remarks might imply that you think it ought to be!” I was secretly delighted to find that she had so quick a temper. For I hoped that reaction might loosen her tongue, if there was anything to learn from her. I sat up as though stung. “My dear lady, I had no thought of implying any such thing. If my words sounded discourteous I beg that you will pardon them. To tell you the truth, you may remember that I suffered a terrible loss some months ago, and I’m afraid that that has made me self-centered as well as costing me my own capacity for enjoyment. You remember?” It seemed to me that my companion started slightly, and for an instant my heart stood still with a sudden fierce hope. But she answered smoothly enough: “You poor man, of course I remember it. But surely you found your sister again. I have been away, you see, and——” I shook my head. “No, I never found her—and now I am trying to forget.” I glanced at my companion, but she was looking down at her hands. “You have stopped trying to find her?” she inquired, without looking up. “What is the use?”