Sir Everard received him politely in the library.

“Most assuredly, Mr.—­oh, Parmalee.  Take the views, of course.  I am glad you admire Kingsland.  You have been making some sketches already, Miss Silver tells me.”

Miss Silver herself had ushered the gentleman in, and now stood lingeringly by the door-way.  My lady sat watching the ceaseless rain with indolent eyes, holding a novel in her lap, and looking very serene and handsome.

“Well, yes,” Mr. Parmalee admitted, glancing modestly at the plethoric portfolio he carried under his arm.  “Would your lordship mind taking a look at them?  I’ve got some uncommon neat views of our American scenery, too—­Mammoth Cave, Niagry Falls, White Mountains, and so on.  Might help to pass a rainy afternoon.”

“Very true, Mr. Parmalee; it might.  Let us see your American views, then.  Taken by yourself, I presume?”

“Yes, sir!” responded the artist, with emphasis.  “Every one of ’em; and done justice to.  Look a-here!”

He opened his portfolio and spread his “views” out.

Lady Kingsland arose with languid grace and crossed over.  Her husband seated her beside him with a loving smile.  Her back was partly turned to the American, whom she had met without the faintest shade of recognition.

Sybilla Silver, eager and expectant of she knew not what, lingered and looked likewise.

The “views” were really very good, and there was an abundance of them—­White Mountain and Hudson River scenery, Niagara, Nahant, Southern and Western scenes.  Then he produced photographic portraits of all the American celebrities—­presidents, statesmen, authors, actors, and artists.

Mr. Parmalee watched her from under intent brows as she took them daintily up in her slender, jeweled fingers one by one.

“I have a few portraits here,” he said, after a pause, “painted on ivory, of American ladies remarkable for their beauty.  Here they are.”

He took out five, presenting them one by one to Sir Everard.  He had not presumed to address Lady Kingsland directly.  The first was a little Southern quadroon; the second a bright-looking young squaw.

“These are your American ladies, are they?  Pretty enough to be ladies, certainly.  Look, Harrie!  Isn’t that Indian face exquisite?”

He passed them to his wife.  The third was an actress, the fourth a danseuse.  All were beautiful.  With the last in his hand, Mr. Parmalee paused, and the first change Sybilla had ever seen cross his face crossed it then.

“This one I prize most of all,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly, and looking furtively at my lady.  “This lady’s story was the saddest story I ever beard.”

Sybilla looked eagerly across the baronet’s shoulder for a second.  It was a lovely face, pure and child-like, with great, innocent blue eyes and wavy brown hair—­the face of a girl of sixteen.