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 a distance of—well, say the length of his pipe! He wondered what he would say—do! He sighed—and wondered why. Then he puffed furiously at his pipe until Bistre, coughing and sneezing, dragged himself away with a reproachful look from his round brown eyes.

Had one coldly dissected the face under the bonnet feature by feature, one might have found cause for dissatisfaction. Perhaps the face was a trifle long for absolute beauty, the cheeks a trifle too thin. Perhaps, too, one might have found fault with the chin; maybe it was a bit too firmly formed for a woman's face, a little too strong in contour despite its smooth roundness. But Miles, for once at least, was not analytical. To him the face was absolutely the most charming, the most wonderful, he had