“Yes.”

The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair.  “Most extraordinary! for—­you see—­my dear young lady—­this becomes—­a—­er—­most delicate affair.”

“That’s what maw said,” returned the young woman simply, yet with the faintest smile playing around her demure lips and downcast cheek.

“I mean,” said the Colonel, with a pained yet courteous smile, “that this—­er—­gentleman—­is in fact—­er—­one of my clients.”

“That’s what maw said too, and of course your knowing him will make it all the easier for you.”

A slight flush crossed the Colonel’s cheek as he returned quickly and a little stiffly, “On the contrary—­er—­it may make it impossible for me to—­er—­act in this matter.”

The girl lifted her eyes.  The Colonel held his breath as the long lashes were raised to his level.  Even to an ordinary observer that sudden revelation of her eyes seemed to transform her face with subtle witchery.  They were large, brown, and soft, yet filled with an extraordinary penetration and prescience.  They were the eyes of an experienced woman of thirty fixed in the face of a child.  What else the Colonel saw there Heaven only knows!  He felt his inmost secrets plucked from him—­his whole soul laid bare—­his vanity, belligerency, gallantry—­even his mediaeval chivalry, penetrated, and yet illuminated, in that single glance.  And when the eyelids fell again, he felt that a greater part of himself had been swallowed up in them.

“I beg your pardon,” he said hurriedly.  “I mean—­this matter may be arranged—­er—­amicably.  My interest with—­and as you wisely say—­my—­er—­knowledge of my client—­er—­Mr. Hotchkiss—­may effect—­a compromise.”

“And damages,” said the young girl, readdressing her parasol, as if she had never looked up.

The Colonel winced.  “And—­er—­undoubtedly compensation—­if you do not press a fulfillment of the promise.  Unless,” he said, with an attempted return to his former easy gallantry, which, however, the recollection of her eyes made difficult, “it is a question of—­er—­the affections.”

“Which?” asked his fair client softly.

“If you still love him?” explained the Colonel, actually blushing.

Zaidee again looked up; again taking the Colonel’s breath away with eyes that expressed not only the fullest perception of what he had said, but of what he thought and had not said, and with an added subtle suggestion of what he might have thought.  “That’s tellin’,” she said, dropping her long lashes again.

The Colonel laughed vacantly.  Then feeling himself growing imbecile, he forced an equally weak gravity.  “Pardon me—­I understand there are no letters; may I know the way in which he formulated his declaration and promises?”

“Hymn-books.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the mystified lawyer.

“Hymn-books—­marked words in them with pencil—­and passed ’em on to me,” repeated Zaidee.  “Like ‘love,’ ‘dear,’ ‘precious,’ ‘sweet,’ and ‘blessed,’” she added, accenting each word with a push of her parasol on the carpet.  “Sometimes a whole line outer Tate and Brady—­and Solomon’s Song, you know, and sich.”