And with this wonder still ringing in her ears, Gabriella turned away, to attend a customer, who demanded, in cool defiance of man and nature, to be transformed into a straight silhouette.

Gabriella had not seen Judge Crowborough for several years, and her first impression, when she entered his office at five o’clock, was one of surprise at his ugliness.  Though he had changed but little since their first meeting at Mrs. Fowler’s dinner, the years had softened her memory of his appearance, and she had skilfully persuaded herself that one should not judge a man by a repelling exterior, which, after all, might cover a great deal of goodness.  After George’s flight and Archibald Fowler’s death he had been very kind to her.  “I don’t know what I should have done without him at that time,” she thought now, as she stood with his big, soft hand clasping hers and his admiring fishy eyes on her face.  “No, it is impossible to judge by appearances, and all men think well of him, all men respect him,” she concluded, feeling suddenly reassured.

“It’s been a long time—­it must be nearly’ three years—­since I saw you,” he remarked, with flattering geniality, “and you look younger than ever.”

“Hard work keeps me young, then.  I work very hard.”  Her charming smile flashed like an edge of light on her lips, and lent glow and fervor to her pale face beneath the silver-brightened cloud of her hair.  She read his admiration in the bold gaze he fastened upon her, and though she was without coquetry, she was conscious that her vanity was agreeably soothed.

“What is it?  Dressmaking?” He was obviously interested.

“Yes—­dresses and hats.  Hats are rather my specialty.  I manage things now almost entirely at Dinard’s.  Have you ever heard of the house?”

He nodded.  “I remember.  That’s where you went after Archibald died, wasn’t it?” His memory amazed her.  What a mind for trifles he had!  What a wonderful man he was for his years!

“Yes, I’ve been there ever since.  I’ve done well as things go, but, of course, it has been hard.  It has been a hard life.”

“And you never came to me.  I wanted to help you.  I’d have done anything I could to make it easier for you, but you were so proud.  You’d have got on twice as well if you had given up your pride.”

The telephone rang, and while he answered it, she watched his broad, slouching back, his swelling paunch overflowing now above the stays he wore to reduce it, the coarsened flesh of his neck, bulging above the edge of his collar, and the shining, baldness on the top of his head, which gave an appearance of commanding intellect to his empurpled forehead.  How hideous he was, how revolting, and yet what a power!  A face like his on a woman would have condemned her to isolation and misery, but, so far as one could judge, it had scarcely interfered with his happiness.  His mental force had risen superior to his face, to