There was the usual narrow sheet of plate glass at the back of the sideboard, and to this Mr. Bultitude walked, almost under protest, and with a cold dignity. It occurred to him that he might have a smudge on his face or something wrong with his collar and tie--something to account to some extent for his son's frivolous and insulting behaviour. No suspicion of the terrible truth crossed his mind as yet. Meanwhile Dick was looking on eagerly with a chuckle of anticipation, as one who watches the dawning appreciation of an excellent joke. But no sooner had Paul met the reflection in the glass than he started back in incredulous horror--then returned and stared again and again. Surely, surely, this could not be he! He had expected to see his own familiar portly bow-windowed presence there--but somehow, look as he would, the mirror insisted upon reflecting the figure of his son Dick. Could he possibly have become invisible and have lost the power of casting a reflection--or how was it that Dick, and only Dick, was to be seen there? How was it, too, when he looked round, there was the boy still sitting there? It could not be Dick, evidently, that he saw in the glass. Besides, the reflection opposite him moved when he moved, returned when he returned, copied his every gesture! He turned round upon his son with angry and yet hopeful suspicion. "You, you've been playing some of your infernal tricks with this mirror, sir," he cried fiercely. "What have you done to it?" "Done! how could I do anything to it? As if you didn't know that!" "Then," stammered Paul, determined to know the worst, "then do you, do you mean to tell me you can see any--alteration in me? Tell me the truth now!" "I should just think I could!" said Dick emphatically. "It's very queer, but just look here," and he came up to the sideboard and placed himself by the side of his horrified father. "Why," he said, with another giggle, "we're--he-he--as like as two peas!" They were indeed; the glass reflected now two small boys, each with chubby cheeks and auburn hair, both dressed, too, exactly alike, in Eton jackets and broad white collars; the only difference to be seen between them was that, while one face wore an expression of intense glee and satisfaction, the other--the one which Mr. Bultitude was beginning to fear must belong to him--was lengthened and drawn with dismay and bewilderment. "Dick," said Paul faintly, "what is all this? Who has been, been taking these liberties with me?" "I'm sure I don't know," protested Dick. "It wasn't me. I believe you did it all yourself." "Did it all myself!" repeated Paul indignantly. "Is it likely I should? It's some trickery, I tell you, some villainous plot. The worst of it is," he added plaintively, "I don't understand who I'm supposed to be now. Dick, who am I?" "You can't be me," said Dick, "because here I am, you know. And you're not yourself, that's very plain. You must be _somebody_, I suppose," he added dubiously.