She was humming “Quand I’ Amour Meurt” in a gay preoccupation, and evidently sought something upon the table in the centre of the room, for she continued her progress toward it several steps before realizing the presence of a visitor.  She was a year or so younger than the girl who had admitted him, fairer and obviously more plastic, more expressive, more perishable, a great deal more insistently feminine; though it was to be seen that they were sisters.  This one had eyes almost as dark as the other’s, but these were not cool; they were sweet, unrestful, and seeking; brilliant with a vivacious hunger:  and not Diana but huntresses more ardent have such eyes.  Her hair was much lighter than her sister’s; it was the colour of dry corn-silk in the sun; and she was the shorter by a head, rounder everywhere and not so slender; but no dumpling:  she was exquisitely made.  There was a softness about her:  something of velvet, nothing of mush.  She diffused with her entrance a radiance of gayety and of gentleness; sunlight ran with her.  She seemed the incarnation of a caressing smile.

She was point-device.  Her close, white skirt hung from a plainly embroidered white waist to a silken instep; and from the crown of her charming head to the tall heels of her graceful white suede slippers, heels of a sweeter curve than the waist of a violin, she was as modern and lovely as this dingy old house was belated and hideous.

Mr. Valentine Corliss spared the fraction of a second for another glance at the rose in the waste-basket.

The girl saw him before she reached the table, gave a little gasp of surprise, and halted with one hand carried prettily to her breast.

“Oh!” she said impulsively; “I beg your pardon.  I didn’t know there was——­ I was looking for a book I thought I——­”

She stopped, whelmed with a breath-taking shyness, her eyes, after one quick but condensed encounter with those of Mr. Corliss, falling beneath exquisite lashes.  Her voice was one to stir all men:  it needs not many words for a supremely beautiful “speaking-voice” to be recognized for what it is; and this girl’s was like herself, hauntingly lovely.  The intelligent young man immediately realized that no one who heard it could ever forget it.

“I see,” she faltered, turning to leave the room; “it isn’t here—­the book.”

“There’s something else of yours here,” said Corliss.

“Is there?” She paused, hesitating at the door, looking at him over her shoulder uncertainly.

“You dropped this rose.”  He lifted the rose from the waste-basket and repeated the bow he had made at the front door.  This time it was not altogether wasted.

“I?”

“Yes.  You lost it.  It belongs to you.”

“Yes—­it does.  How curious!” she said slowly.  “How curious it happened to be there!” She stepped to take it from him, her eyes upon his in charming astonishment.  “And how odd that——­” She stopped; then said quickly: