daughter, sir." He added, with quaint pride: "The great jewelers of Fifth Avenue consult her; experts in our business often seek her advice. The Museum authorities have been pleased to speak highly of her monograph on Hurtado de Mendoza."
Desboro hesitated for a moment, then gave his card to the old salesman, who trotted away with it down the unlighted vista of the shop.
The young man's pleasantly indifferent glance rested on one object after another, not unintelligently, but without particular interest. Yet there were some very wonderful and very rare and beautiful things to be seen in the celebrated shop of the late Jean Louis Nevers.
So he stood, leaning on his walking stick, the upturned collar of his raincoat framing a face which was too colourless and worn for a man of his age; and presently the little old salesman came trotting back, the tassel on his neat silk cap bobbing with every step.
"Miss Nevers will be very glad to see you in her private office. This way, if you please, sir."
Desboro followed to the rear of the long, dusky shop, turned to the left through two more rooms full of shadowy objects dimly discerned, then traversed a tiled passage to where electric lights burned over a doorway.
The old man opened the door; Desboro entered and found himself in a square picture gallery, lighted from above, and hung all around with dark velvet curtains to protect the pictures on sale. As he closed the door behind him a woman at a distant desk turned her head, but remained seated, pen poised, looking across the room at him as he advanced. Her black gown blended so deceptively with the hangings that at first he could distinguish only the white face and throat and hands against the shadows behind her.
"Will you kindly announce me to Miss Nevers?" he said, looking around for a chair.
"I am Miss Nevers."
She closed the ledger in which she had been writing, laid aside her pen and rose. As she came forward he found himself looking at a tall girl, slim to thinness, except for the rounded oval of her face under a loose crown of yellow hair, from which a stray lock sagged untidily, curling across her cheek.
He thought: "A blue-stocking prodigy of learning, with her hair in a mess, and painted at that." But he said politely, yet with that hint of idle amusement in his voice which often sounded through his speech with women:
"Are you the Miss Nevers who has taken over this antique business, and who writes monographs on Hurtado de Mendoza?"
"Yes."
"You appear to be very young to succeed such a distinguished authority as your father, Miss Nevers."
His observation did not seem to disturb her, nor did the faintest hint of mockery in his pleasant voice. She waited quietly for him to state his business.
He said: "I came here to ask somebody's advice about engaging an expert to appraise and catalogue my collection."
And even while he was speaking he was conscious that never before had he seen such a white skin and such red lips—if they were natural. And he began to think that they might be.
He said, noticing the bright lock astray on her cheek once more:
"I suppose that I may speak to you in confidence—just as I would have spoken to your father."
She was still looking at him with the charm of youthful inquiry in her eyes.
"Certainly," she said.
She glanced down at his card which still lay on her blotter, stood a moment with her hand resting on the desk, then indicated a chair at her elbow and seated herself.
He took the chair.
"I wrote you that I'd drop in sometime this week. The note was directed to your father. I did not know he was not living."
"You are the Mr. Desboro who owns the collection of armour?" she asked.
"I am that James Philip Desboro who lives at Silverwood," he said. "Evidently you have heard of the Desboro collection of arms and armour."
"Everybody has, I think."
He said, carelessly: "Museums, amateur collectors, and students know it, and I suppose most dealers in antiques have heard of it."
"Yes, all of them, I believe."
"My house," he went on, "Silverwood, is in darkest Westchester, and my recent grandfather, who made the collection, built a wing to contain it. It's there as he left it. My father made no additions to it. Nor," he added, "have I. Now I want to ask you whether a lot of those things have not increased in value since my grandfather's day?"
"No doubt."
"And the collection is valuable?"
"I think it must be—very."
"And to determine its value I ought to have an expert go there and catalogue it and appraise it?"
"Certainly."
"Who? That's what I've come here to find out."
"Perhaps you might wish us to do it."
"Is that still part of your business?"
"It is."
"Well," he said, after a moment's thought, "I am going to sell the Desboro collection."
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, under her breath; and looked up to find him surprised and beginning to be amused again.
"Your attitude is not very professional—for a dealer in antiques," he said quizzically.
"I am something else, too, Mr. Desboro." She had flushed a little, not responding to his lighter tone.
"I am very sure you are," he said. "Those who really know about and care for such collections must feel sorry to see them dispersed."
"I had hoped that the Museum might have the Desboro collection some day," she said, in a low voice.
He said: "I am sorry it is not to be so," and had the grace to redden a trifle.
She played with her pen, waiting for him to continue; and she was so young, and fresh, and pretty that he was in no hurry to finish. Besides, there was something about her face that had been interesting him—an expression which made him think sometimes that she was smiling, or on the verge of it. But the slightly upcurled corners of her mouth had been fashioned so by her Maker, or perhaps had become so from some inborn gaiety of heart, leaving a faint, sweet imprint on her lips.
To watch her was becoming a pleasure. He wondered what her smile might be like—all the while pretending an absent-minded air which cloaked his idle curiosity.
She waited, undisturbed, for him to come to some conclusion. And all the while he was thinking that her lips were perhaps just a trifle too full—that there was more of Aphrodite in her face than of any saint he remembered; but her figure was thin enough for any saint. Perhaps a course of banquets—perhaps a régime under a diet list warranted to improve——
"Did
