“Well, we’ll go into the details presently,” he heard Mr. Lavington say, still on the question of his nephew’s future. “Let’s have a cigar first. No--not here, Peters.” He turned his smile on Faxon. “When we’ve had coffee I want to show you my pictures.” “Oh, by the way, Uncle Jack--Mr. Faxon wants to know if you’ve got a double?” “A double?” Mr. Lavington, still smiling, continued to address himself to his guest. “Not that I know of. Have you seen one, Mr. Faxon?” Faxon thought: “My God, if I look up now they’ll _both_ be looking at me!” To avoid raising his eyes he made as though to lift the glass to his lips; but his hand sank inert, and he looked up. Mr. Lavington’s glance was politely bent on him, but with a loosening of the strain about his heart he saw that the figure behind the chair still kept its gaze on Rainer. “Do you think you’ve seen my double, Mr. Faxon?” Would the other face turn if he said yes? Faxon felt a dryness in his throat. “No,” he answered. “Ah? It’s possible I’ve a dozen. I believe I’m extremely usual-looking,” Mr. Lavington went on conversationally; and still the other face watched Rainer. “It was... a mistake... a confusion of memory....” Faxon heard himself stammer. Mr. Lavington pushed back his chair, and as he did so Mr. Grisben suddenly leaned forward. “Lavington! What have we been thinking of? We haven’t drunk Frank’s health!” Mr. Lavington reseated himself. “My dear boy!... Peters, another bottle....” He turned to his nephew. “After such a sin of omission I don’t presume to propose the toast myself... but Frank knows.... Go ahead, Grisben!” The boy shone on his uncle. “No, no, Uncle Jack! Mr. Grisben won’t mind. Nobody but _you_--to-day!” The butler was replenishing the glasses. He filled Mr. Lavington’s last, and Mr. Lavington put out his small hand to raise it.... As he did so, Faxon looked away. “Well, then--All the good I’ve wished you in all the past years.... I put it into the prayer that the coming ones may be healthy and happy and many... and _many_, dear boy!” Faxon saw the hands about him reach out for their glasses. Automatically, he reached for his. His eyes were still on the table, and he repeated to himself with a trembling vehemence: “I won’t look up! I won’t.... I won’t....” His fingers clasped the glass and raised it to the level of his lips. He saw the other hands making the same motion. He heard Mr. Grisben’s genial “Hear! Hear!” and Mr. Batch’s hollow echo. He said to himself, as the rim of the glass touched his lips: “I won’t look up! I swear I won’t!--” and he looked.