a trace of self-importance in his habit, it achieved distinction solely
through the unpretending dignity of a decent self-esteem.

Sofia tried to fix what it was that made her think him the handsomest man
she had ever seen. She failed. He wasn't at all handsome in the smug
fashion associated with the popular interpretation of that term; his
features were engagingly irregular of conformation, but the impression they
conveyed was of a singular strength together with as rare a fineness of
spirit. A mobile and expressive face, stamped with a history of strange
ordeals; but this must not be interpreted as meaning that it was haggard or
prematurely aged; on the contrary, it had youthful colour and was but
lightly scored with wrinkles, its sole confession of advancing years was in
the gray at either temple. The eyes, perhaps, told more than anything else
of trials endured and memories that would never rest.

Once they had looked into hers (but that came later) Sofia was sure she
would never forget those eyes. And as she saw them then, she never did
forget them. But the next time she saw them she did not know them at all.

The newcomer hailed Mr. Karslake by his name (which was the first time
Sofia had heard it), sat down on the wall-seat beside him and, when the
waiter came, desired an absinthe.

He had used two languages already, English to Karslake, French to the
waiter; Sofia understood both and spoke them to perfection. So it was
rather exasperating when, his absinthe having been served and the customary
platitudes passed on the weather and their respective states of health, the
conversation was continued in a tongue with which Sofia was not only
unacquainted but which sounded like none she had ever heard spoken. This
seemed the more annoying because there were few people in the restaurant to