Passing of the Third Floor Back | Page 7

on my mother's side," continued Sir William's cousin in
her placid monotone, "was connected with the Tatton-Joneses, who
when King George the Fourth--" Sir William's cousin, needing another
reel of cotton, glanced up, and met the stranger's gaze.
"I'm sure I don't know why I'm telling you all this," said Sir William's
cousin in an irritable tone. "It can't possibly interest you."
"Everything connected with you interests me," gravely the stranger
assured her.
"It is very kind of you to say so," sighed Sir William's cousin, but
without conviction; "I am afraid sometimes I bore people."
The polite stranger refrained from contradiction.
"You see," continued the poor lady, "I really am of good family."
"Dear lady," said the stranger, "your gentle face, your gentle voice,
your gentle bearing, all proclaim it."
She looked without flinching into the stranger's eyes, and gradually a
smile banished the reigning dulness of her features.
"How foolish of me." She spoke rather to herself than to the stranger.
"Why, of course, people--people whose opinion is worth troubling
about--judge of you by what you are, not by what you go about saying
you are."
The stranger remained silent.
"I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two
hundred and thirty pounds per annum," she argued. "The sensible thing
for me to do is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about these
high and mighty relations of mine as little as they have ever worried
themselves about me."
The stranger appeared unable to think of anything worth saying.
"I have other connections," remembered Sir William's cousin; "those of
my poor husband, to whom instead of being the 'poor relation' I could
be the fairy god-mama. They are my people--or would be," added Sir
William's cousin tartly, "if I wasn't a vulgar snob."
She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced

preparations for a hurried departure.
"Now it seems I am driving you away," sighed the stranger.
"Having been called a 'vulgar snob,'" retorted the lady with some heat,
"I think it about time I went."
"The words were your own," the stranger reminded her.
"Whatever I may have thought," remarked the indignant dame, "no
lady--least of all in the presence of a total stranger--would have called
herself--" The poor dame paused, bewildered. "There is something very
curious the matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand," she
explained, "I seem quite unable to avoid insulting myself."
Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger good-night,
hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The
stranger, hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind
her.
"Tell me," laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was
contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, "how did you
manage to do it? I should like to know."
"How did I do what?" inquired the stranger.
"Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?"
"How well you play!" observed the stranger. "I knew you had genius
for music the moment I saw you."
"How could you tell?"
"It is written so clearly in your face."
The girl laughed, well pleased. "You seem to have lost no time in
studying my face."
"It is a beautiful and interesting face," observed the stranger.
She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met.
"You can read faces?"
"Yes."
"Tell me, what else do you read in mine?"
"Frankness, courage--"
"Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted." It
was odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. "Tell me the
reverse side."
"I see no reverse side," replied the stranger. "I see but a fair girl,
bursting into noble womanhood."
"And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness,

of--" An angry laugh escaped her lips. "And you are a reader of faces!"
"A reader of faces." The stranger smiled. "Do you know what is written
upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is almost fierce,
scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure,
contempt of all things that are contemptible--especially of such things
as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read aright?"
I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried
from the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is in
them when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours?
The idea occurred to her: "Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to
you during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?"
"The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your
mother principally."
"I am sorry," returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked