During intervals of non-illusion I examined her face critically. There was no question of its unattractiveness to the casual observer. The nose was too large and fleshy, the teeth too prominent, the eyes too small. But my love had pierced to its underlying spirituality, and it was the face above all others that I desired. Toward the end of a remarkably short four hours' journey, Miss Deane graciously expressed the hope that we might meet again. "I shall ask Valerie," said I, "to present me in due form." She smiled maliciously. "Are you quite sure you will be able to distinguish one from the other when my cousin and I are together?" "Are you, then, so identically alike?" "That's a woman's way of answering a question--by another question," she laughed. "Well, but are you?" I persisted. "How otherwise could you have mistaken me for her?" She had drawn off her gloves, so as to give a tidying touch to her hair. I noticed her hands, small, long, and deft. I wondered whether they resembled Valerie's. "Would you do me the great favour of letting me touch your hand while I shut my eyes, as if I were blind?" She held out her hand frankly. My fingers ran over it for a few seconds, as they had done many times over Valerie's. "Well?" she asked. "Not the same," said I. She flushed, it seemed angrily, and glanced down at her hand, on which she immediately proceeded to draw a glove. "Yours are stronger. And finer," I added, when I saw that the tribute of strength did not please. "It's the one little personal thing I am proud of," she remarked. "You have made my four hours pass like four minutes," said I. "A service to a fellow-creature which you might take some pride in having performed." "When I was a child I could have said the same of performing elephants." "I am no longer a child, Miss Deane," said I with a bow. What there was in this to make the blood rush to her pale cheeks I do not know. The ways of women have often surprised me. I have heard other men make a similar confession. "I think most men are children," she said shortly. "In what way?" "Their sweet irresponsibility," said Miss Deane. And then the train entered Grandchester Station. I deposited my bag at the station hotel and drove straight to Stavaton Street. I forgot Miss Deane. My thoughts and longings centred in her beloved counterpart, with her tender, caressing ways, and just a subtle inflection in the voice that made it more exquisite than the voice to which I had been listening. The servant who opened the door recognized me and smiled a welcome. Miss Valerie was in the drawing-room. "I know the way," said I.