On one occasion, as they were entering her boudoir, she picked up a photograph of her daughter from the dresser and dropped it into a drawer.

Cowperwood had never seen this picture before.

It was that of a girl of fifteen or sixteen, of whom he obtained but the most fleeting glance.

Yet, with that instinct for the essential and vital which invariably possessed him, he gained a keen impression of it.

It was of a delicately haggard child with a marvelously agreeable smile, a fine, high-poised head upon a thin neck, and an air of bored superiority.