A finger missing from his left hand told a story of student life in Paris.  It was a quarrel with a young Frenchman, about a girl.  He and his rival happening to sit opposite to each other at a restaurant table, high words arose between them, and the Frenchman eventually made a stab at Thistlewood’s hand with his dinner-fork.  That ended the dispute, but the finger had to come off.  Not long afterwards Thistlewood accepted an engagement to go as artist with a party of English explorers into Siberia.  On his return he lingered for a week or two in St Petersburg, and there chanced to meet the girl who had cost him one of his digits.  She, like himself, had been in pursuit of adventures; but, whereas the artist came back with a well-filled purse, the wandering damsel was at her last sou.  They journeyed together to London, and for the next year or two Thistlewood had the honour of working himself almost to death to support a very expensive young woman, who cared no more for him than for her cast-off shoes.  Happily, some richer man was at length found who envied him his privilege, and therewith ended Thistlewood’s devotion to the joys of a bohemian life.  Ever since, his habits had been excessively sober —­ perhaps a little morose.  But Mrs. Langland, who now saw him once a year; thought him in every respect improved.  Moreover, she had a project for his happiness, and on that account frequently glanced at him during dinner, as he conversed, much more fluently than of wont, with his neighbour, Mrs. Abbott.

Alma sat on the other side of the table, and was no less observant than the hostess of a peculiar animation on Mr. Thistlewood’s dark visage.  To be sure, she knew nothing of him, and it might be his habit to wear that look when he talked with ladies; but Alma thought it unlikely.  And it seemed to her that Mary Abbott, though much as usual in manner, had a just perceptible gleam of countenance beyond what one was accustomed to remark in her moments of friendly conversation.  This, too, might be merely the result of a little natural excitement, seeing that the school-mistress so seldom dined from home.  But, in any case, the proximity of these two persons was curiously interesting and suggestive.

In the drawing-room, presently, Alma had a pleasant little talk with Mr Thistlewood.  By discreet experiment, she satisfied herself that Mrs Abbott’s name certainly quickened his interest; and, having learnt so much, it was easy, by representing herself as that lady’s old and intimate friend, to win from the man a significant look of pleasure and confidence.  They talked of art, of landscape, and it appeared that Thistlewood was acquainted with the part of Carnarvonshire where Alma had lived.  What was more, he had heard of her charming water-colours, and he would so much like to see them.

‘Some enemy has done this,’ replied Alma, laughing gaily.  ’Was it Mrs Abbott?’

‘No, it was not,’ he answered, with corresponding vivacity.