“Who was the giver, then?”

“Must be Narramore, of course.  He was here not long ago, and growled a good deal because I hadn’t a decent chair for his lazy bones.”

“I am much obliged to him,” said Eve, as she sank back in the seat of luxurious repose.  “You ought to hang his portrait in the room.  Haven’t you a photograph?” she added carelessly.

“Such a thing doesn’t exist.  Like myself, he hasn’t had a portrait taken since he was a child.  A curious thing, by-the-bye, that you should have had yours taken just when you did.  Of course it was because you were going far away for the first time; but it marked a point in your life, and put on record the Eve Madeley whom no one would see again If I can’t get that photograph in any other way I shall go and buy, beg, or steal it from Mrs. Brewer.”

“Oh, you shall have one if you insist upon it.”

“Why did you refuse it before?”

“I hardly know—­a fancy—­I thought you would keep looking at it, and regretting that I had changed so.”

As on her previous visit, she soon ceased to talk, and, in listening to Hilliard, showed unconsciously a tired, despondent face.

“Nothing yet,” fell from her lips, when he had watched her silently.

“Never mind; I hate the mention of it.”

“By-the-bye,” he resumed, “Narramore astounded me by hinting at marriage.  It’s Miss Birching, the sister of my man.  It hasn’t come to an engagement yet, and if it ever does I shall give Miss Birching the credit for it.  It would have amused you to hear him talking about her, with a pipe in his mouth and half asleep.  I understand now why he took young Birching with him to Switzerland.  He’ll never carry it through; unless, as I said, Miss Birching takes the decisive step.”

“Is she the kind of girl to do that?” asked Eve, waking to curiosity.

“I know nothing about her, except from Narramore’s sleepy talk.  Rather an arrogant beauty, according to him.  He told me a story of how, when he was calling upon her, she begged him to ring the bell for something or other, and he was so slow in getting up that she went and rang it herself.  ‘Her own fault,’ he said; ’she asked me to sit on a chair with a seat some six inches above the ground, and how can a man hurry up from a thing of that sort?’”

“He must be a strange man.  Of course he doesn’t care anything about Miss Birching.”

“But I think he does, in his way.”

“How did he ever get on at all in business?”

“Oh, he’s one of the lucky men.”  Hilliard replied, with a touch of good-natured bitterness.  “He never exerted himself; good things fell into his mouth.  People got to like him—­that’s one explanation, no doubt.”

“Don’t you think he may have more energy than you imagine?”

“It’s possible.  I have sometimes wondered.”

“What sort of life does he lead?  Has he many friends I mean?”