But the great Obenreizer peculiarity was, that a certain nameless film would come over his eyes—­apparently by the action of his own will—­which would impenetrably veil, not only from those tellers of tales, but from his face at large, every expression save one of attention.  It by no means followed that his attention should be wholly given to the person with whom he spoke, or even wholly bestowed on present sounds and objects.  Rather, it was a comprehensive watchfulness of everything he had in his own mind, and everything that he knew to be, or suspected to be, in the minds of other men.

At this stage of the conversation, Mr. Obenreizer’s film came over him.

“The object of my present visit,” said Vendale, “is, I need hardly say, to assure you of the friendliness of Wilding and Co., and of the goodness of your credit with us, and of our desire to be of service to you.  We hope shortly to offer you our hospitality.  Things are not quite in train with us yet, for my partner, Mr. Wilding, is reorganising the domestic part of our establishment, and is interrupted by some private affairs.  You don’t know Mr. Wilding, I believe?”

Mr. Obenreizer did not.

“You must come together soon.  He will be glad to have made your acquaintance, and I think I may predict that you will be glad to have made his.  You have not been long established in London, I suppose, Mr. Obenreizer?”

“It is only now that I have undertaken this agency.”

“Mademoiselle your niece—­is—­not married?”

“Not married.”

George Vendale glanced about him, as if for any tokens of her.

“She has been in London?”

“She is in London.”

“When, and where, might I have the honour of recalling myself to her remembrance?”

Mr. Obenreizer, discarding his film and touching his visitor’s elbows as before, said lightly:  “Come up-stairs.”

Fluttered enough by the suddenness with which the interview he had sought was coming upon him after all, George Vendale followed up-stairs.  In a room over the chamber he had just quitted—­a room also Swiss-appointed—­a young lady sat near one of three windows, working at an embroidery-frame; and an older lady sat with her face turned close to another white-tiled stove (though it was summer, and the stove was not lighted), cleaning gloves.  The young lady wore an unusual quantity of fair bright hair, very prettily braided about a rather rounder white forehead than the average English type, and so her face might have been a shade—­or say a light—­rounder than the average English face, and her figure slightly rounder than the figure of the average English girl at nineteen.  A remarkable indication of freedom and grace of limb, in her quiet attitude, and a wonderful purity and freshness of colour in her dimpled face and bright gray eyes, seemed fraught with mountain air.  Switzerland too, though the general fashion of her dress was English, peeped out