They made a fine picture as they sat together to-night.  One seeing them could hardly help thinking on the instant that they were made for each other.  Something in the woman’s face, in her expression perhaps, supplied a palpable lack in the man.  The strength of her mouth and chin helped the weakness of his.  She was the sort of woman who, if ever he came to a great moral crisis in his life, would be able to save him if she were near.  And yet he was going away from her, giving up the pearl that he had only to put out his hand to take.

Some of these thoughts were in the minds of the brother and sister now.

“Five years does seem a long while,” Francis was saying, “but if a man accomplishes anything, after all, it seems only a short time to look back upon.”

“All time is short to look back upon.  It is the looking forward to it that counts.  It does n’t, though, with a man, I suppose.  He’s doing something all the while.”

“Yes, a man is always doing something, even if only waiting; but waiting is such unheroic business.”

“That is the part that usually falls to a woman’s lot.  I have no doubt that some dark-eyed mademoiselle is waiting for you now.”

Francis laughed and flushed hotly.  Claire noted the flush and wondered at it.  Had she indeed hit upon the real point?  Was that the reason that he was so anxious to get back to Paris?  The thought struck a chill through her gaiety.  She did not want to be suspicious, but what was the cause of that tell-tale flush?  He was not a man easily disconcerted; then why so to-night?  But her companion talked on with such innocent composure that she believed herself mistaken as to the reason for his momentary confusion.

Someone cried gayly across the table to her:  “Oh, Miss Claire, you will not dare to talk with such little awe to our friend when he comes back with his ribbons and his medals.  Why, we shall all have to bow to you, Frank!”

“You ’re wronging me, Esterton,” said Francis.  “No foreign decoration could ever be to me as much as the flower of approval from the fair women of my own State.”

“Hear!” cried the ladies.

“Trust artists and poets to pay pretty compliments, and this wily friend of mine pays his at my expense.”

“A good bit of generalship, that, Frank,” an old military man broke in.  “Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in.  That ’s the highest art of war.”

Claire was looking at her companion.  Had he meant the approval of the women, or was it one woman that he cared for?  Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her?  She could never tell.  She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade.  She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table.

The men lingered over their cigars.  The wine was old and the stories new.  What more could they ask?  There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley’s face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing.  Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence.  When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room.  He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him.