He stood a moment looking at it; he knew he had seen it before.

He had an excellent memory for faces; but it was some time before he was able to attach an identity to this one.
Where had he seen a little elderly lady with an expression of timorous vigilance, and a band of hair as softly white as a dove's wing?
The answer to the question presently came--Where but in a grass-grown corner of an old Italian town?
The lady was the mother of his inconsequent model, so that this mysterious personage was probably herself not far off.

Before Longueville had time to verify this induction, he found his eyes resting upon the broad back of a gentleman seated close to the old lady, and who, turning away from her, was talking to a young girl.
It was nothing but the back of this gentleman that he saw, but nevertheless, with the instinct of true friendship, he recognized in this featureless expanse the robust personality of Gordon Wright.

In a moment he had stepped forward and laid his hand upon Wright's shoulder.
His friend looked round, and then sprang up with a joyous exclamation and grasp of the hand.
"My dear fellow--my dear Bernard! What on earth--when did you arrive ?" While Bernard answered and explained a little, he glanced from his friend's good, gratified face at the young girl with whom Wright had been talking, and then at the lady on the other side, who was giving him a bright little stare.

He raised his hat to her and to the young girl, and he became conscious, as regards the latter, of a certain disappointment.