Into Derby’s face there came a look like that of the small boy who gazes hungrily into a bakery shop window as he protested.  “No one could know Nina well and not love her.  She is the squarest, the truest, just as she is the most beautiful, girl in the world.”

“No,”—­Mr. Randolph spoke quite slowly, for him—­“Nina is not beautiful—­sweet, and unspoiled, and lovable, yes; but she is not a beauty.”

Derby’s face kindled with indignation, and he retorted unguardedly, “I grant you she hasn’t one of those pleased-with-itself, don’t-disturb-the-placidity-of-my-peerless-perfection sort of faces; the valentine sort that strikes a man at first sight, but that at the end of a week he would do anything for the sake of varying its monotony.  But Nina—­the more you look at her the more lovely she becomes, unless she gets the notion that some man wants to marry her money—­and then it is time for me to take to the prairies!  Her eyes get hard, her mouth goes up on one side and her features seem to set and freeze.  She has only one hard side, but that is adamant!  Poor girl, I can hardly blame her.  As she says herself, there are proposals on her breakfast tray every morning—­with all the other advertisements.”

Mr. Randolph looked directly into the blue eyes before him, as though to probe their depths.  “I want my girl to marry a man whom she can look up to because he is trying to accomplish something himself,” he said emphatically, “and not one who will lay his hat down in the front hall of my house instead of at his own office.  And,” he added grimly, “a coronet in place of the hat is still less to my liking.”

A curiously restrained, almost diffident, expression, which in no way suited his personality, came into Derby’s face, and he abruptly rose to take leave.

Mr. Randolph rose also, but, instead of terminating the interview, crossed the room, saying, “Before you go, John, I want to show you a prize I have found.”  He turned a canvas that stood face to the wall, and lifted it to a sofa for a better view.

It was a marvelous picture:  a Madonna and child; and on the shoulder of the Madonna was a dove.

“It is supposed to be a Raphael,” said Randolph, “and I am convinced that it is.  The story is rather interesting.  Raphael painted two pictures that were almost identical.  One is in the Sansevero family.  Their collection in Rome I have seen, but this picture has always hung at Torre Sansevero, their country estate, and I have never been there.  However, as I said, Raphael painted two.  The second belonged to the Belluno family and was sold long ago into France.  There it became the property of a Duc du Richeur, and during the Revolution it was supposedly destroyed.  Some time ago Christopher Shayne, the dealer, bought among other things at an auction a nearly black canvas.  On having it cleaned, this was the result—­without doubt the lost Raphael!”

“Jove, that’s interesting!” exclaimed Derby.  “I’d like to see the other.  Perhaps I’ll have the chance, although Nina wrote that they were leaving for Rome, and that was several weeks ago.  But now good-by, sir.  Tiggs and Jenkins are to meet me at the Engineers’ Club at noon.  I am sure I can get off to-morrow.”