“I can’t imagine what she wants with me,” said Eliphalet, “but” he glanced at his watch—“I soon shall.” Throwing Mornice a smile, he went down the passage toward the private boudoir. There was no answer to his knock, so he turned the handle and walked inside. Mrs. Montmorency hung over the bannisters above, and watched him enter. Finding himself alone, his first thought was to retire, but an innate curiosity caused him to look about him first. The lilies attracted his attention, or rather diverted it from the garish vulgarity of the other decorations. His eye was caught by the photographs on the walls, for he recognised several old faces among them. All theatrical lodgings are plastered with portraits of the various actors who have distinguished them with their presence, but there was something in the sequence of the portraits that seemed oddly familiar. Somewhere, on some past wall, he had seen the same picture gallery assembled. Where? He turned and found himself face to face with his own portrait—his portrait as a very young man; written across it in ink, autumnal-brown with time, were the words: “To my dear Blanche—Eliphalet.” “Good God!” he whispered. Then said a voice behind him, speaking in trembling accents: “I’ve been so miserable, Cardy. All these years I have never known a moment’s peace and quietude.” He revolved slowly and confronted the woman who had been his wife. Her hands outstretched toward him. He did not move, but looked her over gravely. Dolled up, painted, and smelling of half-a-dozen cheap perfumes that strove in vain to subordinate the reek of still stronger waters—she was all that his fancy pictured she would be. “So it’s you, Blanche,” he said. “Yes, me—what’s left.” (He nodded at that.) “If you knew, Cardy, what I have gone through—what my conscience has suffered for the way I served you, you would take pity. That’s why——” She made a gesture as though to say, “Behold the wreckage”—“And you—you so young-looking, so handsome, and with a beautiful grown-up daughter! Oh, Cardy, it’s too much to bear. You must forgive me and take me back.” Sobbing piteously, she fell into his arms. Eliphalet let her sob for as long as he could hold his breath; then he placed her in a chair and seated himself as far away as possible. “Need you envy me so acutely?” he said. “You married again, and bore a daughter after you ceased to be my wife.” “That’s true,” she nodded, dabbing her nose, which sprang to a bright purple at the touch; “but it’s cruel to remind me.” “Why?” His voice was courteous, but unsympathetic. “She—Oh, and she was such a pretty, dainty little thing. I can’t speak of her, Cardy. I can’t.” “Why not?” With a choking voice she replied: “She was taken—taken——” “You mean she died?” “Died; yes. Only fourteen—getting on so nicely, too; beginning to earn her own keep, like the one you’ve got. But there, you’ve always been the lucky one.” “By God,” he said, “I think I have.”