He said, with a smile, he thought it must be thousands, as city property was so very high.  He was very kind, however, about the matter, and did not discourage me at all.  He always seemed to approve of my desire to give away in charity, and, within bounds, always furthered such plans of doing good.  He said he would look into it, and would write me word next week what his impression was; and then, I think, he meant to go away.

Then I began talking on every subject I could think of, hoping some of the roads would lead to Rome.  But none of them led there, and I was in despair.

“Oh, don’t you want to look at some photographs?” I said, at last, thinking I saw an opening for my wedge.  I got the package, and he came to the table and looked at them, standing up.  They were naturally of much more interest to me than to him, being of places and people with which I had so lately been familiar.

But he looked at them very kindly, and asked a good many questions about them.

“Look at this,” I said, handing him an Antwerp peasant-woman in her hideous bonnet.  “Isn’t that ridiculously like Charlotte Benson?  I bought it because it was so singular a resemblance.”

“It is like her,” he said, thoughtfully, looking at it long.  “The mouth is a little larger and the eyes further apart.  But it is a most striking likeness.  It might almost have been taken for her.”

“How is she, and when have you seen her?” I said, a little choked for breath.

“She is very well.  I saw her yesterday,” he answered, still looking at the little picture.

“Was she with Sophie this summer?”

“Yes, for almost two months.”

“I hope she doesn’t keep everybody in order as sharply as she used to?” I said, with a bitter little laugh.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “I think, perhaps, she is rather less decided than she used to be.”

“Oh, you call it decision, do you?  Well, I’m glad I know what it is.  I used to think it hadn’t such a pretty name as that.”

Richard looked grave; it certainly was not a graceful way to lead up to congratulations.

“But then, you always liked her,” I said.

“Yes, I always liked her,” he answered, simply.

“I’m afraid I’m not very amiable,” I retorted, “for I never liked her:  no better even than that fraudulent Mary Leighton, clever and sensible as she always was.  There is such a thing as being too clever, and too sensible, and making yourself an offence to all less admirable people.”

Richard was entirely silent, and, I was sure, was disapproving of me very much.

“Do you know what I heard yesterday?” I said, In a daring way.  “And I hope you’re going to tell me if it’s true, to-night?”

“What was it that you heard yesterday?” he asked, without much change of tone.  He had laid down the photograph, and had gone back, and was leaning by the mantelpiece again.