Of one thing he was excitedly conscious: that dreadful and persistent
dragging feeling at the nape of his neck had vanished. It didn't seem
possible that it could have disappeared overnight, but it had, for the
present, at least.

He went into the sitting room. Nobody was there, either, so he broke his
sealed shell boxes, filled his case with sixes and fives and double B's,
drew his expensive ducking gun from its case and took a look at it,
buckled the straps of his hip boots to his belt, felt in the various
pockets of his shooting coat to see whether matches, pipe, tobacco,
vaseline, oil, shell extractor, knife, handkerchief, gloves, were in
their proper places; found them so, and, lighting another cigarette,
strolled contentedly around the small and almost bare room, bestowing a
contented and patronizing glance upon each humble article and decoration
as he passed.

Evidently this photograph, in an oval frame of old-time water gilt, was
a portrait of Miss Herold's mother. What a charming face, with its
delicate, high-bred nose and lips! The boy, Jim, had her mouth and nose,
and his sister her eyes, slightly tilted to a slant at the outer
corners--beautifully shaped eyes, he remembered.

He lingered a moment, then strolled on, viewing with tolerant
indifference the few poor ornaments on the mantel, the chromos of wild
ducks and shore birds, and found himself again by the lamp-lit table
from which he had started his explorations.