satisfaction, as he had chosen his time carefully, of learning that she had just come in. Up-stairs, in a high, quiet, old-fashioned drawing-room, she was before him. What he saw was a tall woman in black, in her bonnet, with a white face, smiling intensely—smiling and smiling before she spoke. He quickly perceived that she was agitated and was making an heroic effort, which would presently be successful, not to show it. But it was above all clear to him that she wasn't Fanny Knocker—was simply another person altogether. She had nothing in common with Fanny Knocker. It was impossible to meet her on the ground of any former acquaintance. What acquaintance had he ever had with this graceful harmonious, expressive English matron, whose smile had a singular radiance? That rascal of a Crisford had done her such perfect justice that he felt as if he had before him the portrait of which the image in the studio had been the original. There were, nevertheless, things to be said, and they said them on either side, sinking together, with friendly exclamations and exaggerated laughs, on
