He sauntered across into the salon, where a fire was burning cosily. The wide portiere was drawn across the larger room beyond where, on the evenings when they played, the card table was set out. He warmed his hands before the blaze, glancing at the crowded mantel-piece, covered with many photographs, most of them portraits of men. He smiled as he recognized the face of a youthful college friend. It was signed in a sprawling hand--"Yours, Archie," and the thought flashed into his mind that no power of blandishment could win from himself a similar trophy. Whatever his weakness for Fantine might cost, McTaggart knew, deep down in his heart, respect did not share in the feeling; his shrewdness would balance his desire. But he knew as well that she held a charm which set her apart from her type, not only physical but mental, appealing to his intellect. There lay the danger. For after her the English women he admired seemed heavy; they lacked her spice; their calmer beauty was apt to cloy on close acquaintance. He was idly scanning the photographs, his mind partially abstracted, when he caught a glimpse of a curious face, half-hidden from his sight. The portrait, old and faded, had slipped into the crack between mirror and wall and he rescued it and held it a moment underneath the electric light. A man with a short square beard, his dark hair cut "en brosse," with evil eyes and an aquiline nose, rather crooked below the bridge. Something Eastern, McTaggart thought, lay in the lazy, sensuous smile, in the heavily lidded narrow eyes, slightly tilted toward the temples. A Frenchman? hardly. A Greek? perhaps. A "wrong un'"!--of that he was sure. He had just time to replace the photo before Fantine entered the room. "Me voila donc!--you admire my gallery?--all the men I have loved and lost..." "It makes me glad I am not among them." McTaggart turned with a short laugh. "I should like to flatter myself with the thought, that I am the one you will love ... and _keep_!" "That depends." She came nearer and the faint perfume she affected floated up into his nostrils as he looked down from his height at her. "On what?" Despite his control the narrow face upturned to him, above the shimmering gray fur, with its red lips in a mocking line cutting the dead-white of her skin, made his pulses beat faster. "On yourself." She turned away with a quick, indifferent shrug. Fully aware of her power, she never strained a situation. "My friend--I'm famished!" She fastened her glove. "Why talk about the little heart when the big rest of one is empty? I thought you were here to take me out to a new restaurant to-night?" "But it's only seven o'clock." He smiled at the rueful note in her voice. "You can't eat anything yet, can you? Of course we'll start--at once, if you like." "Good." She clapped her hands like a child. "I'm ver' hungry, really, Pierrot. I slept late and missed lunch."