“You haven’t impressed me as tragic,” he admitted. Lexy laughed. “Thank goodness!” she said. “I do want to keep on being—well, ordinary and human, even when outside things seem a little tragic.” “Miss Moran!” he said, and stopped. It was some time before he spoke again. Lexy took advantage of his abstraction to study his face by the firelight. When you come to understand it a little, it wasn’t a haughty face at all, but a very sensitive and fine one. “Miss Moran!” he said again. “About being ordinary and human—of course, one wants to be that; but the thing is—I don’t know quite how to put it, but if you have a feeling, you know—I mean a feeling that something is wrong—” He paused again. “I mean,” he went on, “if you have a feeling like that—a sort of—well, call it uneasiness—the question is whether one ought to laugh at it, or take it as”—once more he stopped—“as a warning,” he ended. A strange sensation came over Lexy. “I’ve been thinking a good deal about that very thing lately,” she replied. “I believe feelings like that _are_ a warning. I’m sure it’s wrong—foolish and wrong—to disregard them. Even if every one else, even if your own mind tells you it’s all nonsense, you mustn’t care!” “I think you’re right,” he gravely agreed. “I’ve been trying to tell myself that I’m an utter ass, but all the time I knew I wasn’t. I knew—I know now—that there’s something—” An unreasoning dread possessed Lexy. She felt for a moment that she didn’t want to hear any more. “I’d like to tell you about it, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said. “Somehow I think you could help.” For an instant she hesitated. “Please do tell me,” she said at length. “I’d be glad to help, if I can.” “It’s this,” he said. “Do you mind if I smoke? Thanks!” He took a cigarette case from his pocket. As he struck a match, she could see his face very clearly in the sudden flame; and, for no reason at all, she pitied him. “It’s this,” he said again. “It’s about my sister.” “The sister you’ve never seen?” The sensation of dread had gone, and she felt only the liveliest interest. She wanted very much to hear about Captain Grey’s sister. “It wasn’t quite true to say I’d never seen her,” he explained, in his painstaking way. “I have, you know; but not since I was six years old and she was a baby. Our mother died when Muriel was born, out in India. An aunt took the poor little kid to the States with her, and I stayed out there with my father.” He drew on his cigarette for a minute. “She’s twenty-one now,” he said. “Last picture I had of her was when she was fourteen or so. A pretty kid—a bit more than pretty—what you’d call lovely.” He was silent for a little, staring into the fire. “When I was at school in England, it was arranged that she was to come over; but she didn’t, and we’ve never met again. Twenty-one years—it’s a long time.” “Yes, it is,” said Lexy gently, for something in his voice touched her.