After her little home had been set to rights, she sat down by the single window the room contained, her arm resting upon the sill dejectedly.
An old man, aristocratic in appearance, notwithstanding the poor clothing that he wore, a man strangely white of hair and beard, bent from age and sorrow, sat near her, playing with a string that he was twining about his fingers.
"What is the matter with you to-night, my darling?" he asked, breaking a long silence. "My little one is not at all like herself! Dad is not going to lose his sunshine at this time of life, is he? I did not know that I should miss the chatter of my little magpie so much. What is the matter, Leonie?"
She leaned over and kissed him, but even that was not done in her usual way.
"Nothing, dad!" she answered dreamily. "That is, there is nothing wrong! I was only thinking. That is something unusual, I confess."
"Of what were you thinking?"
"Of a picture that I saw to-day. It was a woman's face—a woman that I think Rembrandt or Guido would have given half their lives to paint. I couldn't describe it to you, because any description would sound commonplace applied to such an original. Her name is Miss Evelyn Chandler."
When she had finished speaking she turned her eyes slowly, and allowed them to rest upon Godfrey Cuyler's face.
She was startled at the change that flashed over it. His chin dropped, his eyes set, his brow was covered suddenly with a moisture that resembled death.
"Where did you see it?" he asked hoarsely, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.