Chilcote moved a small table nearer to the couch and spread his hands upon it, palms downward.  “Like this, eh?” he said.  Then a ridiculous nervousness seized him and he moved away.  “Some other day,” he said, quickly.  “You can show me some other day.  I’m not very fit this afternoon.”

If Lillian felt any disappointment, she showed none.  “Poor old thing!” she said, softly.  “Try to sit here by me and we won’t bother about anything.”  She made a place for him beside her, and as he dropped into it she took his hand and patted it sympathetically.

The touch was soothing, and he bore it patiently enough.  After a moment she lifted the hand with a little exclamation of reproof.

“You degenerate person!  You have ceased to manicure.  What has become of my excellent training?”

Chilcote laughed.  “Run to seed,” he said, lightly.  Then his expression and tone changed.  “When a man gets to my age,” he added, “little social luxuries don’t seem worth while; the social necessities are irksome enough.  Personally, I envy the beggar in the street—­exempt from shaving, exempt from washing—­”

Lillian raised her delicate eyebrows.  The sentiment was beyond her perception.

“But manicuring,” she said, reproachfully, “when you have such nice hands.  It was your hands and your eyes, you know, that first appealed to me.”  She sighed gently, with a touch of sentimental remembrance.  “And I thought it so strong of you not to wear rings—­it must be such a temptation.”  She looked down at her own fingers, glittering with jewels.

But the momentary pleasure of her touch was gone.  Chilcote drew away his hand and picked up the book that lay between them.

“Other Men’s Shoes!” he read.  “A novel, of course?”

She smiled.  “Of course.  Such a fantastic story.  Two men changing identities.”

Chilcote rose and walked back to the mantel-piece.

“Changing identities?” he said, with a touch of interest.

“Yes.  One man is an artist, the other a millionaire; one wants to know what fame is like, the other wants to know how it feels to be really sinfully rich.  So they exchange experiences for a month.”  She laughed.

Chilcote laughed as well.  “But how?” he asked.

“Oh, I told you the idea was absurd.  Fancy two people so much alike that neither their friends nor their servants see any difference!  Such a thing couldn’t be, could it?”

Chilcote looked down at the fire.  “No,” he said, doubtfully.  “No.  I suppose not.”

“Of course not.  There are likenesses, but not freak likenesses like that.”

Chilcote’s head was bent as she spoke, but at the last words he lifted it.

“By Jove!  I don’t know about that!” he said.  “Not so very long ago I saw two men so much alike that I—­I—­” He stopped.

Lillian smiled.

He colored quickly.  “You doubt me?” he asked.