Once, going into the house, he chanced to come upon his full-length reflection in a mirror newly hung, and stopped short to gaze upon himself.

The parlor of his lodgings at Williamsburgh and the last time that he had seen Evelyn came to him, conjured up by the memory of certain words of his own.
"A truer glass might show a shrunken figure," he repeated, and with a quick and impatient sigh he looked at the image in the mirror.
To the eye, at least, the figure was not shrunken.

It was that of a man still young, and of a handsome face and much distinction of bearing.

The dress was perfect in its quiet elegance; the air of the man composed,--a trifle sad, a trifle mocking.

Haward snapped his fingers at the reflection.