"Bad is a mild word, Stella; and yet—look at the face again. I have seen it softened by a smile such as might have been worn by an innocent child; I have heard those lips laugh as—as women are supposed to laugh before this world has driven all laughter out of them; and when those eyes smile there is no resisting them for man or woman."
He stopped suddenly and looked up.
"I am wandering on like an old mill. Put the picture away, Stella."
She took it from him and carried it across the room, but stood for a moment silently regarding it by the lamp light. As she did so, a strange fancy made her start and set the picture on the table suddenly. It seemed to her as if the dark eyes had suddenly softened in their intense fixed gaze and smiled at her.
It was the trick of a warm, imaginative temperament, and it took possession of her so completely that with a swift gesture she laid her hand over the dark eyes and so hid them.
Then, with a laugh at her own folly, she put the picture against the wall and went back to the window and sat beside the old man.
"Tell me about your past life, Stella," he said, in a low voice.
"It seems to me as if you had always been here. You have a quiet way of speaking and moving about, child."
"I learnt that while papa was ill," she said, simply. "Sometimes he would sit for hours playing softly, and I did not wish to disturb him."
"I remember, I remember," he murmured. "Stella, the world should have known something of him; he was a born musician."