Olga bent forward sharply to catch a glimpse of her friend, and then as swiftly checked herself and remembered her guest. She moved sedately back into the room, only to discover that he also had risen, to look out of the window over Max's shoulder. Instinctively she glanced at him. His deep-set eyes were fixed intently as if held by a vision. But his face was drawn in painful lines. She had a curious feeling of foreboding as she watched him. There was something fateful in his look. It passed in a moment. Almost before she knew it, he had turned back to her and was courteously conversing. She gave him her attention with difficulty. Her ears were strained to catch the sound of Violet's approach. She was possessed by a ridiculous longing to rush out to her, to keep her from entering this man's presence, to warn her--to warn her--Of what? She had not the faintest idea. By a great effort of will, she controlled herself, but the impulse yet remained--a striving, clamouring force, impotent but insistent. There came the low, sweet notes of Violet's voice. She was singing a Spanish love-song. Sir Kersley Whitton fell silent. He looked at the door. Max wheeled from the window. Olga waited tensely for the coming of her friend. The door swung back and she entered. With her careless Southern grace she sauntered in upon them. "Good Heavens!" she said, breaking off in the middle of her song. "Is it a party of mutes?" Olga hastily and with evident constraint introduced the visitor, at sound of whose name Violet opened her beautiful eyes to their widest extent. "How do you do? I had no idea a lion was expected. Why wasn't I told?" "He is not one of the roaring kind," said Max. Violet was looking with frank curiosity into Sir Kersley's face. "I'm sure I've met you somewhere," she said. "I wonder where." He smiled slightly--a smile which to Olga's watching eyes was infinitely sad. "I don't think you have," he said. "You may have seen my portrait." "Ah, that's it!" She regarded him with a new interest. "I have! I believe I've got it somewhere." "Do you collect the portraits of celebrities?" asked Max. She shook her head. "Oh, no! It's among my mother's things. It must have been taken years ago. You were very handsome--in those days, weren't you?" "Was I?" said Sir Kersley. "Yes. That's why I kept you. There was a bit of your hair with it, but I burnt that." Violet's brows knitted suddenly. "My mother was handsome too," she said. "I wonder why you jilted her!" Sir Kersley made a slight movement, so slight that it seemed almost involuntary. "That, my child," he said quietly, "is a very old story." She laughed her gay, winning laugh. "Oh, of course! I expect you have jilted dozens since then. It's the way of the world, isn't it?" He looked into the exquisite face, still faintly smiling. "It's not my way," he said.