another," Kendal interrupted.

"I'm going to do a descriptive article for the _Age_;
the editor wants to call it 'Through the Studios,' or
something of that sort--about the artists over here and
their ways of working, and their places, and their ideas,
and all that, and I thought, if you didn't mind, I should
like to begin with you. Though it's rather like taking
an advantage."

"But are you going in for this sort of thing seriously?
Have you ever done anything of the sort before? Isn't it
an uncommon grind?" Kendal asked, with hearty interest.
"What made you think of it? Of course you may say any
mortal thing you want to about me--though I call it
treachery, your going over to the critics. And I'm afraid
you won't find anything very picturesque here. As you
say, we're not in Paris."

"Oh yes, I shall," she replied sweetly, ignoring his
questions. "I like pipes and cobwebs and old coats hanging
on a nail, and plenty of litter and dust and confusion.
It's much better for work than tapestries and old armour
and wood-carvings."

Miss Bell did not open her little black notebook to record
these things, however. Instead, she picked up a number
of the _London Magazine_ and looked at the title of an
article pencil-marked on the pale green cover. It was
Janet Cardiff's article, and Lady Halifax had marked it.
Elfrida had read it before. It was a fanciful recreation
of the conditions of verse-making when Herrick wrote,
very pleasurably ironical in its bearing upon more modern
poetry-making. It had quite deserved the praise she gave
it in the corner which the _Age_ reserved for magazines.
"I want you to understand," she said slowly, "that it is
only a way. I shall not be content to stick at
this--ordinary--kind of journalistic work. I shall aim
at something better--something perhaps even as good as
that," she held up the marked article. "I wonder if she
realizes how fortunate she is--to appear between the same
covers as Swinburne!"

"It is not fortune altogether," Kendal answered; "she
works hard."

"Do you know her? Do you see her often? Will you tell
her that there is somebody who takes a special delight
in every word she writes?" asked Elfrida impulsively.
"But no, of course not! Why should she care--she must
hear such things so often. Tell me, though, what is she
like, and particularly how old is she?"

Kendal had begun to paint again; it was a compliment he
was able to pay only to a very few people. "I shall