John Castlemaine went to the sideboard and cut a slice of ham, and then returned to the table again. His daughter was still intent on her letter, although she occasionally took a sip of coffee. "Letter interesting, Olive?" "Very." Mr. Castlemaine looked steadily at his daughter and sighed. He was not a sad-looking man, even although he sighed. There was a merry twinkle in his keen grey eyes and a smile played around his mouth. Perhaps he sighed because his daughter reminded him of her mother, who was dead. Perhaps he remembered the fact that she was his only child, and that if she married he would be all alone. That he was proud of her there could be no doubt. No one could see the look he gave her without being sure of it; that he loved her very dearly was just as certain. And indeed it was no wonder that this should be so, for Olive Castlemaine had for years been his only earthly joy and comfort. Especially was this so since she had left school. He had bestowed all his affection on her as a child, but when she returned home from Germany, after having received many honours both at St. Andrews and Girton, pride was added to his love. When one goes amongst a large concourse of people there is generally one face, one personality that stands out clearly and distinctly from the rest. The great majority are commonplace, unnoteworthy; but there is generally one, if not more, who strikes the attention, and claims the interest of the observer. When you see such a one you begin to ask questions. You want to know his or her history, antecedents, or achievements. If you learn nothing of importance you are disappointed. You feel that you have been defrauded of something. "With such a face, such a personality," you say, "he or she should do and be something out of the ordinary."