She had never ventured inside before.
"Tell me again what you were telling Jules," said the old man.
"Seventy-three years, did you say?
And how long has she been back in France ?" Joyce began to answer his rapid questions, but stopped with a frightened cry as her glance fell on a large portrait hanging over the mantel.
"There she is!" she cried, excitedly dancing up and down as she pointed to the portrait.

"There she is! That's Number Thirty-one, her very own self." "You are mistaken!" cried the old man, attempting to rise from his chair, but trembling so that he could scarcely pull himself up on his feet.

"That is a picture of my mother, and Desire is dead; long dead." [Illustration: "'THAT'S NUMBER THIRTY-ONE.'"] "But it is _exactly_ like Number Thirty-one,--I mean Madame Desire," persisted Joyce.
Monsieur looked at her wildly from under his shaggy brows, and then, turning away, began to pace up and down the room.

"I had a sister once," he began.

"She would have been seventy-three this month, and her name was Desire." Joyce stood motionless in the middle of the room, wondering what was coming next.