rait waistcoat only to paint Cafe Royal types. But if you
want lines Lady Sellingworth ought to sit for you."

Her mind that night could not detach itself from Lady Sellingworth.
In the midst of the noise, and crush, and strong light of the cafe she
continually imagined a spacious, quiet, and dimly lit room, very calm,
very elegant, faintly scented with flowers; she continually visualized
two figures near together, talking quietly, earnestly, confidentially.
Why had she allowed Jennings to lead her astray? She might have been in
that spacious room, too, if she had not been stupid.

"I want to ask you something about Lady Sellingworth," she continued.
"Come a little nearer."

Garstin shifted his chair.

"But I don't know her," he said, rumpling his hair with an air of
boredom. "An old society woman! What's the good of that to me? What have
I to do with dowagers? Bow wow dowagers! Even Rembrandt--"

"Now, Dick, don't be a bore! If you would only listen occasionally,
instead of continually--"

"Go ahead, young woman! And bend down a little more. Why don't you take
off your hat?"

"I will."

She did so quickly, and bent her lovely head nearer to him.

"That's better. You've got a damned fine head. Ceres might have owned
it. But classical stuff is no good to me. You ought to have been painted
by Leighton and hung on the line in the precious old Royal Academy."

Again the tell-tale mark appeared above the bridge of Miss Van Tuyn's
charming nose.

"I painted by a Royal Academician!" she exclaimed. "Thank you, Dick!"

Garstin, who was as mischievous as a monkey, and who loved to play cat
and mouse with a woman, continued to gaze at her with his assumption of
fierce attention.

"But Leighton being unfortunately dead, we can't go to him for your
portrait," he continued gravely. "I think we shall have to hand you over
to McEvoy. Smith!" he suddenly roared.

"Well, what is it, Dick, what is it?" said the sculptor in a thin voice,
with high notes which came surprisingly though the thicket of tangled
hair about the cavern of his mouth.

"Who shall paint Beryl as Ceres?"

"I refuse to be pained by anyone as Ceres!" said Miss Van Tuyn, almost
viciously.

"It ought to have been Leighton. But he's been translated. I suggested
McEvoy."

"Oh, Lord! He'd take the substance out of her, make her transparent!"

"I have it then! Orpen! It shall be Orpen! Then she will be hung on the
line."

"You talk as if I were the