“You knew her, I suppose?”
I had to stop and think. Why, of course I’d known her: a silent handsome
girl, showy yet ineffective, whom I had seen without seeing the winter
that society had capitulated to Vard. Still looking at the crayon, I
tried to trace some connection between the Miss Vard I recalled and the
grave young seraph of Lillo’s sketch. Had the Vards bewitched him? By
what masterstroke of suggestion had he been beguiled into drawing the
terrible father as a barber’s block, the commonplace daughter as this
memorable creature?
“You don’t remember much about her? No, I suppose not. She was a
quiet girl and nobody noticed her much, even when--” he paused with a
smile--“you were all asking Vard to dine.”
I winced. Yes, it was true--we had all asked Vard to dine. It was some
comfort to think that fate had made him expiate our weakness.
Lillo put the sketch on the mantel-shelf and drew his arm-chair to the
fire.
“It’s cold to-night. Take another cigar, old man; and some whiskey?
There ought to be a bottle and some glasses in that cupboard behind
you... help yourself...”