Faxon, with what felt like an actual wrench of the muscles, dragged his own eyes from the sight to scan the other countenances about the table; but not one revealed the least consciousness of what he saw, and a sense of mortal isolation sank upon him.

“It’s worth considering, certainly——­” he heard Mr. Lavington continue; and as Rainer’s face lit up, the face behind his uncle’s chair seemed to gather into its look all the fierce weariness of old unsatisfied hates.  That was the thing that, as the minutes labored by, Faxon was becoming most conscious of.  The watcher behind the chair was no longer merely malevolent:  he had grown suddenly, unutterably tired.  His hatred seemed to well up out of the very depths of balked effort and thwarted hopes, and the fact made him more pitiable, and yet more dire.

Faxon’s look reverted to Mr. Lavington, as if to surprise in him a corresponding change.  At first none was visible:  his pinched smile was screwed to his blank face like a gas-light to a white-washed wall.  Then the fixity of the smile became ominous:  Faxon saw that its wearer was afraid to let it go.  It was evident that Mr. Lavington was unutterably tired too, and the discovery sent a colder current through Faxon’s veins.  Looking down at his untouched plate, he caught the soliciting twinkle of the champagne glass; but the sight of the wine turned him sick.

“Well, we’ll go into the details presently,” he heard Mr. Lavington say, still on the question of his nephew’s future.  “Let’s have a cigar first.  No—­not here, Peters.”  He turned his smile on Faxon.  “When we’ve had coffee I want to show you my pictures.”

“Oh, by the way, Uncle Jack—­Mr. Faxon wants to know if you’ve got a double?”

“A double?” Mr. Lavington, still smiling, continued to address himself to his guest.  “Not that I know of.  Have you seen one, Mr. Faxon?”

Faxon thought:  “My God, if I look up now they’ll both be looking at me!” To avoid raising his eyes he made as though to lift the glass to his lips; but his hand sank inert, and he looked up.  Mr. Lavington’s glance was politely bent on him, but with a loosening of the strain about his heart he saw that the figure behind the chair still kept its gaze on Rainer.

“Do you think you’ve seen my double, Mr. Faxon?”

Would the other face turn if he said yes?  Faxon felt a dryness in his throat.  “No,” he answered.

“Ah?  It’s possible I’ve a dozen.  I believe I’m extremely usual-looking,” Mr. Lavington went on conversationally; and still the other face watched Rainer.

“It was ... a mistake ... a confusion of memory ...”  Faxon heard himself stammer.  Mr. Lavington pushed back his chair, and as he did so Mr. Grisben suddenly leaned forward.  “Lavington!  What have we been thinking of?  We haven’t drunk Frank’s health!”

Mr. Lavington reseated himself.  “My dear boy! ...  Peters, another bottle. ...”  He turned to his nephew.  “After such a sin of omission I don’t presume to propose the toast myself ... but Frank knows. ...  Go ahead, Grisben!”