She moved the writing-table and picked up a quaint letter-weight with interest. The photograph she ignored.
“I love your writing-chair,” she said.
“It was my grandfather’s. The only bit I have of his. My parents cleared out the whole lot when they married—too awful, wasn’t it?”
“But your books are wonderful! Surely you have many first editions here. Old Raphael would have loved them.”
“The best of my first editions are on the right of the fireplace.”
She turned, and then suddenly her face lit. Lit up curiously, as if there were a light behind it.
“Oh!” she said quite softly, then crossed to the fireplace and stood looking at the photograph he had moved that afternoon from the writing-table.
She did not pick it up or touch it; only looked at it with wide eyes for quite a long time.
Then she turned to him.
“That is the man I saw,” she said. “Now will you believe?”