"Oh, by the way, Miss Friscoe will not trouble you, you will be glad to hear," said Lillie, lightly.  
"Indeed?" said Silverdale. "Then she has drawn¹ a prize after all! I cannot say as much for the young man. I hardly think she is a credit to your sex. Somehow, she reminded me of a woman I used to know, and of some verses I wrote upon her."
 
("If he had given me a chance, and not gone on to read his poetry so quickly," wrote Lillie in her diary that night, "I might have told him that his inference about Miss Friscoe was incorrect. But it is such a trifle—it is not worth telling him now, especially as he practically intimated she would have been an undesirable² member, and I only saved him the trouble of trying her.")
 
Lord Silverdale read his verses without the accompaniment of the banjo, an instrument too frivolous³ for the tragic⁴ muse⁵.
 
LA FEMME QUE NE RIT PAS.
 
It was fair with a loveliness mystic,
Like the faces that Raphael drew,
Enigmatic, intense, cabalistic,
But surcharged with the light of the true:
Such a face, such a hauntingly magic
Incarnation of wistful regret,
It was tenebrous, tender, and tragic,
I dream of it yet.
And there lives in my charmed recollection,
The sweet mouth with its lips cruelly curled,
As with bitter ironic⁷ rejection⁸
Of the gods of the frivolous world.
Yet not even disdain⁹ on her features
Was enthroned, for a heavenly peace
Often linked her with bright seraph¹⁰ creatures
Or statues of Greece.
I met her at dinners and dances,
Or on yachts that by moonlight went trips,
And was thrilled by her marvellous glances,
And the sneer¹¹ or repose¹² of her lips.
Never smile o'er her features did play light,
Never laughter illumined her eyes;
She grew to seem sundered¹³ from daylight
And sun-kindled skies.
Were they human at all, these dusk glories
Of eyes? And their owner, was she
A Swinburnian Lady Dolores,
Or a sprite from some shadowy sea?
A Cassandra at sea-trip and soirée,
Or Proserpina visiting earth?
Ah, what Harpy pursued her as quarry¹⁴
To strangle so mirth?
Ah, but now I am wiser and sadder,
And my spirit can never again
At the sight of your fairness feel gladder,
O ladies, who coolly obtain
Our enamelled and painted complexion¹⁵
On conditions (which really are "style,")
You must never by day risk detection
And nevermore smile.
"I don't see where the connection with Miss Friscoe comes in," said Lillie.
 
"No? Why simply if she acquired an enamelled complexion, it might be the salvation¹⁶ of her, don't you see? Like Henry I., she could never smile again."
 
 Lillie smiled. Then producing a manuscript, she said: "I think you will be interested in this story of another of the candidates who applied¹⁷ during your expedition to the clouds. It is quite unique, and for amusement I have written it from the man's point of view."
 
"May I come in?" interrupted the millionaire, popping his head through the door. "Are there any Old Maids here?"
 
"Only me," said Lillie.
 
"Oh, then, I'll call another time."
 
"No, you may come in, father. Lord Silverdale and I have finished our business for the day. You can take that away with you and read it at your leisure, Lord Silverdale."
 
The millionaire came in, but without empressement.
 
That night Lord Silverdale, who was suffering from insomnia¹⁸, took the manuscript to bed with him, but he could not sleep till he had finished it.
 
I, Anton Mendoza, bachelor, born thirty years ago by the grace of the Holy Virgin¹⁹, on the fête-day of San Anton, patron of pigs and old maids, after sundry²⁰ adventures by sea and land, found myself in the autumn of last year in the pestiferous atmosphere of London. I had picked up bad English and a good sum of money in South America, and by the aid of the two was enabled to thread my way through the mazes²¹ of the metropolis²². I soon tired of the neighborhood of the Alhambra (in the proximity²³ of which I had with mistaken patriotism²⁴ established myself), for the wealthy quarters of all great cities have more affinities²⁵ than differences, and after a few days of sight-seeing I resolved to fare forth²⁶ in quest of the real sights of London. Mounting the box of the first omnibus that came along, I threw the reins²⁷ of my fortunes into the hands of the driver, and drew a little blue ticket from the  lottery²⁸ of fate. I scanned the slip of paper curiously²⁹ and learned therefrom that I was going fast to "The Angel," which I shrewdly divined to be a public-house, knowing that these islanders display no poetry and imagination save in connection with beer. My intuition was correct, and though it was the forenoon I alighted amid a double stream of pedestrians³⁰, the one branch flowing into "The Angel," and the other issuing therefrom. Extricating³¹ myself, I looked at my compass, and following the direction of the needle soon found myself in a network of unlovely streets. For an hour I paced forwards without chancing on aught of interest, save many weary organ-grinders, seemingly serenading their mistresses with upward glances at their chamber-windows, and I was commencing to fear that my blue ticket would prove a blank, when a savory³³ odor of garlic struck on my nostrils³⁴ and apprised³⁵ me that my walk had given me an appetite. Glancing sideways I saw a door swinging, the same bearing in painted letters on the glass the words: "Menotti's Restaurant—Ici on parle Francais." It looked a queer little place, and the little back street into which I had strayed seemed hardly auspicious³⁶ of cleanly fare. Still the jewel of good cookery harbors often in the plainest caskets, and I set the door swinging again and passed into a narrow room walled with cracked mirrors and furnished with a few little tables, a rusty³⁷ waiter, and a proprietorial³⁸ looking person perpetually bent⁴⁰ over a speaking tube. As noon was barely arrived, I was not surprised to find the place all but empty. At the extreme end of the restaurant I caught a glimpse of a stout⁴¹ dark man with iron-gray whiskers. I thought I would go and lunch at the table of the solitary⁴² customer and scrape acquaintance, and thus perhaps achieve an adventure. But hardly had I seated myself opposite him than a shock traversed his face, the morsel⁴³ he had just swallowed seemed to stick in his throat, [pg 165] he rose coughing violently, and clapping his palm over his mouth with the fingers spread out almost as if he wished to hide his face, turned his back quickly, seized his hat, threw half-a-crown to the waiter and scuttled⁴⁵ from the establishment.
 
 
He scuttled from the Establishment.
 
I was considerably⁴⁶ surprised at his abrupt⁴⁷ departure, as if I had brought some infection with me. The momentary⁴⁸ glimpse I had caught of his face had convinced me I had never seen it before, that it had no place in the photograph album of my brain, though now it would be fixed⁴⁹ there forever. The nose hooked itself on to my memory at once. It must be that he had mistaken me for somebody else, somebody whom he had reason to fear. Perhaps he was a criminal and imagined me a detective. I called the proprietor³⁹ and inquired of him in French who the man was and what was the matter with him. But he shook his head and answered: "That man there puzzles me. There is a mystery behind."
 
"Why, has he done anything strange before to-day?"
 
"No, not precisely⁵⁰."
 
"How then?"
 
"I will tell you. He comes here once a year."
 
"Once a year?" I repeated.
 
"No more. This has been going on for twelve years."
 
"What are you telling me there?" I murmured.
 
"It is true."
 
"But how have you remembered him from year to year?"
 
"I was struck by his face and his air the very first time. He seemed anxious, ill at ease, worried. He left his chop half eaten."
 
"Ha!" I murmured.
 
"Also he looks different from most of my clients. They are not of that type. Of course I forget him immediately—it is not my affair. But when he comes the  second time I recall him on the instant, though a year has passed. Again he looks perturbed⁵², restless. I say to myself: 'Aha, thou art not a happy man, there is something which preys⁵³ on thy mind. However, thy money is good and to the devil with the rest.' So it goes on. After three or four visits I commence to look out for him, and I discover that it is only once a year he does me the honor to arrive. There are twelve years that I know him—I have seen him twelve times."
 
"And he has always this nervous air?"
 
"Not always. That varies. Sometimes he appears calm, sometimes even happy."
 
"Perhaps it is your fare," I said slily.
 
"Ah, no, monsieur, that does not vary. It is always of the first excellence⁵⁴."
 
"Does he always come on the same date?"
 
"No, monsieur. There is the puzzle. It is never exactly a year between his visits—sometimes it is more, sometimes it is less."
 
"There is, indeed, the puzzle," I agreed. "If it were always the same date, it would be a clue. Ah, an idea! He comes not always on the same date of the month, but he comes, perhaps, on the same day of the week, eh?"
 
Again the proprietor dashed me back into the depths of perplexity.
 
"No," he said, decisively. "Monday, Wednesday, Saturday,—it is all the same. The only thing that changes not is the man and his dress. Always the same broadcloth frock-coat and the same high hat and the same seals at the heavy watch-chain. He is a rich man, that sees itself."
 
I wrinkled my brow and tugged⁵⁵ the ends of my moustache in the effort to find a solution. The proprietor tugged the ends of his own moustache in sympathetic silence.
 
"Does he always slink out if anybody sits down opposite to him?" I inquired again.
 
"On the contrary. He talks and chats quite freely with his neighbors when there are any. I have seen his countenance⁵⁶ light up when a man has come to seat himself next to him."
 
"Then to-day is the first time he has behaved so strangely?"
 
"Absolutely."
 
Again I was silent. I looked at myself curiously in the cracked mirror.
 
"Do you see anything strange in my appearance?" I asked the proprietor.
 
"Nothing in the world," said the proprietor, shaking his head vigorously.
 
"Nothing in the world," echoed the waiter, emphatically.
 
"Then why does he object to me, when he doesn't object to anybody else?"
 
"Pardon," said the proprietor. "It is, after all, but rarely that a stranger sits at his table. He comes ordinarily so early for his lunch that my clients have not yet arrived, and I have only the honor to serve an accidental customer like yourself."
 
"Ah, then, there is some regularity⁵⁸ about the time of day at least?"
 
"Ah, yes, there is that," said the proprietor, reflectively. "But even here there is no hard and fast line. He may be an hour earlier, he may be an hour later."
 
"What a droll⁵⁹ of a man!" I said laughing, even as I wondered. "And you have not been able to discover anything about him, though he has given it you in twelve?"
 
"It is not my affair," he repeated, shrugging his shoulders.
 
"You know not his name even?"
 "How should I know it?"
 
"Ah, very well, you shall see!" I said, buttoning up my coat resolutely⁶⁰ and rising to my feet. "You shall see that I will find out everything in once. I, a stranger in London, who love the oceans and the forests better than the cities, I, who know only the secrets of Nature, behold⁶¹, I will solve you this mystery of humanity."
 
"As monsieur pleases," replied the proprietor. "For me the only question is what monsieur will have for his lunch."
 
"I want no lunch," I cried. Then seeing his downcast face and remembering the man must be out of sight by this time and nothing was to be gained by haste, I ordered some broth⁶² and a veal⁶³ and ham pie, and strode to the door to make sure there was no immediate⁵¹ chance of coming upon him. The little by-street was almost deserted⁶⁴, there was not a sign of my man. I returned to my seat and devoted⁶⁵ myself to my inner man instead. Then I rebuttoned my coat afresh—though with less facility—and sauntered out joyously⁶⁶. Now at last I had found something to interest me in London. The confidence born of a good meal was strong in my bosom⁶⁷ as I pushed those swinging doors open and cried "Au revoir," to my host, for I designed to return and to dazzle him with my exploits.
 
"Au revoir, monsieur, a thousand thanks," cried the proprietor, popping up from his speaking-tube. "But where are you going? Where do you hope to find this man?"
 
"I go not to find the man," I replied airily.
 
"Comment!" he exclaimed in his astonishment⁶⁸.
 
"I go to seek the woman," I said in imposing⁶⁹ accents. And waving my hand amicably⁷⁰ I sallied forth into the dingy⁷¹ little street.
 
But alas⁷² for human anticipations⁷³! The whole of that day I paced the dead and alive streets of North London without striking the faintest indication of a trail. After a week's futile⁷⁴ wanderings I began to realize the immensity of the English metropolis—immense not only by its actual area, but by the multiplicity of its streets and windings⁷⁵, and by the indifference⁷⁶ of each household to its neighbors, which makes every roof the cover of manifold mysterious existences and potentialities. To look for a needle in a bundle of hay were child's play to the task of finding a face in a London suburb, even assuming as I did my enigma⁶ lived in the northern district. I dared not return to the restaurant to inquire if perchance he had been seen. I was ashamed to confess myself baffled. I shifted my quarters from Leicester Square to Green Lanes and walked every day within a four mile radius⁷⁷ of the restaurant, but fortune turned her face (and his) from me and I raged at my own folly⁷⁸ in undertaking⁷⁹ so futile a quest. At last, "Patience!" I cried. "Patience, and shuffle⁸⁰ the cards!" It was my pet proverb when off the track of anything. To cut yourself adrift from the old plan and look at the problem with new eyes—that was my recipe. I tried it by going into the country for some stag hunting, which I had ascertained⁸¹ from a farmer whom I met in a coffee-house, could be obtained in some of the villages in the next county. But English field-sports I found little to my taste, for the deer had been unhorned and was let out of a cart, and it was only playing at sport. The Holy Mother save me from such bloodless make-believe! Though the hunting season was in full swing I returned in disgust to the town, and again confiding⁸² my fortunes to a common or garden omnibus, I surveyed the street panorama⁸³ from my seat on the roof till the vehicle turned round for the backward journey. This time I found myself in Canonbury, a district within the radius I had previously⁸⁴ explored. The coincidence gave me fresh hope—it seemed a happy augury⁸⁵ of ultimate success. The saints would guide my footsteps  after all; for he who wills aught intensely cajoles Providence⁸⁶. The dusk had fallen and the night lamps had been lit in the heavens and on the earth, though without imparting cheerfulness to the rigid⁸⁷ rows of highly respectable houses. I walked through street after street of gray barracks, tall narrow structures holding themselves with the military stiffness and ranged in serried⁸⁸ columns, the very greenery that relieved their fronts growing sympathetically symmetrical and sombre. I sighed for my native orange-groves, I longed for a whiff of the blue Mediterranean⁸⁹, I strove to recall the breezy expanses of the South American Pampas whence I had come, and had it not been for the interest of my search, I should have fled like St. Anthony from the lady, though for very opposite reasons. It seemed scarcely possible that romance should brood behind those dull façades; the grosser spirit of prose seemed to shroud⁹⁰ them as in a fog.
 
Suddenly, as I paced with clogged⁹¹ footsteps in these heavy regions, I heard a voice calling somebody, and looking in the direction of the sound I could not but fancy it was myself whose attention was sought. A gentleman standing⁹² at the hall-door of one of the houses, at the top of the white steps, was beckoning⁹³ in my direction. I halted, and gazing on all sides ascertained I was the sole pedestrian. Puzzled as to what he could want of me, I tried to scan his features by the rays of a street lamp which faced the house and under which I stood. They revealed a pleasant but not English-looking face, bearded and bronzed, but they revealed nothing as to the owner's designs. He stood there still beckoning, and the latent hypnotism of the appeal drew me towards the gate. I paused with my hand on the lock. What in the name of all the saints could he possibly want with me? I had sundry valuables about my person, but then they included a loaded revolver, so why refuse the adventure?
 
 "Do come in," he said in English, seeing my hesitation⁹⁴. "We are only waiting for you."
 
 
I accepted the strange invitation.
 
The mysterious language of the invitation sealed my fate. Evidently I had again been mistaken for somebody else. Was it that I resembled someone this man knew? If so, it would probably be the same someone the other man had dreaded⁹⁵. I seemed to feel the end of a clew at last, the other end which was tied to him I sought. Putting my hand to my breast pocket to make sure it held my pistol, I drew back the handle of the gate and ascended⁹⁷ the steps. There was an expression of satisfaction on the face of my inviter, and, turning his back upon me he threw the door wide open and held it courteously⁹⁸ as I entered. A whiff of warm stuffy⁹⁹ air smote¹⁰⁰ my nostrils as I stepped into the hall where an india-rubber plant stood upon a rack heavily laden¹⁰¹ with overcoats. My host preceded me a few paces and opened a door on the right. A confused babble¹⁰² of guttural speech broke upon my ear, and over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of a strange scene—a medley¹⁰³ of swarthy men, wearing their hats, a venerable-looking old man who seemed their chief being prominent in a grim, black skull¹⁰⁴ cap; there was a strange weird¹⁰⁵ wick burning in a cup of oil on the mantelpiece, and on a sofa at the extreme end of the room sat a beautiful young lady weeping silently.
 
My heart gave a great leap. Instinct told me I had found the woman. I made the sign of the cross and entered.
 
A strange look of relief passed over the faces of the company as I entered. Instinctively¹⁰⁶ I removed my hat, but he who had summoned me deprecated the courtesy with a gesture, remarking, "We are commencing at once."
 
I stared at him, more puzzled than ever, but kept silence lest speech should betray me and snatch the solution from me on the very eve of my arrival at it.
 
It was gathering¹⁰⁷ in my mind that I must strikingly resemble  one of the band, that the man of the restaurant had betrayed us, and that he went in fear of our vengeance¹⁰⁸. Only thus could I account for my reception both by him and by the rest of the gang.
 
The patriarchal-looking chieftain got up and turned his back to the company, as if surveying them through the mirror. He then addressed them at great length with averted¹⁰⁹ face in a strange language, the others following him attentively¹¹⁰ and accompanying his remarks with an undercurrent of murmured sympathy, occasionally breaking out into loud exclamations¹¹¹ of assent¹¹² in the same tongue. I listened with all my ears, but could not form the least idea as to what the language was. There were gutturals in it as in German, but I can always detect German if I cannot understand it. There was never a word which had the faintest analogy with any of the European tongues. I came to the conclusion it was a patter of their own. The leader spoke¹¹³ hurriedly for the most part, but in his slower passages there was a rise and fall of the voice almost amounting to a musical inflection. Near the end, after an emphatic⁵⁷ speech frequently interrupted by applause, he dropped his voice to a whisper and a hushed silence fell upon the room. The beautiful girl on the couch got up and, holding a richly-bound book in her hand, perused¹¹⁴ it quietly. Her lovely eyes were heavy with tears. I drifted upon a current of wonder into perusing¹¹⁵ her face, and it was with a start that, at the sudden resumption of the leader's speech, I woke from my dreams. The address came to a final close soon after, and then another member wound up the proceedings¹¹⁶ with a little speech, which was received with great enthusiasm.
 
While he was speaking, I studied the back of the patriarch's head. He moved it, and my eyes accidentally lighted on something on the mantelpiece which sent a thrill through my whole being. It was a photograph, and unless  some hallucination tricked my vision, the photograph of the man I sought. I trembled with excitement. My instinct had been correct. I had found the woman. Saint Antony had guided my footsteps aright. The company w............