which he adjusted with great nicety on the edge of his very short nose.

"On business, my dear!" he repeated. "Well, well! To be sure! Is it Miss
Harrison who has sent you?"

Mr. Pengarth's visitor looked positively annoyed. She leaned across the
table towards him so that the roses in her large hat almost brushed his
forehead. Her wonderful brown eyes were filled with reproach.

"Mr. Pengarth," she said, "do you know how old I am?"

"How old, my dear? Why, let me see!" he exclaimed. "Fourteen and--why,
God bless my soul, you must be eighteen!"

"I am nineteen years old, Mr. Pengarth," the young lady announced with
dignity. "Perhaps you will be kind enough to treat me now--er--with a
little more respect."

"Nineteen!" he repeated vaguely. "God bless my--nineteen years old?"

"I consider myself," she repeated, "of age. I have come to see you about
my affairs!"

"Yes, yes!" he said. "Quite natural."

"For four years," she continued, "I seem to have been supported by some
relative of my father, who has never vouchsafed to send me a single line
or message except through you. I have written letters which I have
given to you to forward. There has been no reply. Have you sent on those
letters, Mr. Pengarth?"

"Why certainly, my dear, certainly!"

"Can you tell me how it is that I have had no answer?"

Mr. Pengarth coughed. He was not at all comfortable.

"Your guardian, Miss Juliet, is somewhat eccentric," he answered, "and
he is a very busy man."

"Can you tell me, Mr. Pengarth, exactly what relation he is to me?"

There was a dead silence. Mr. Pengarth found the room suddenly warm, and
mopped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief.

"I have no authority," he declared, "to answer any questions."

"Then can you tell me of your own accord," she said, "why there is all
this mystery? Why may I not know who he is, why may I not write to him?
Am I anything to be ashamed of, that he will not trust me even with his
name? I am tired of accepting so much and not being able to offer even
my thanks in return. It is too much like charity! I have made up my mind
that if this is to go on, I will go away and earn my own living! There,
Mr. Pengarth!"

"Rubbish!" he exclaimed briskly. "What at?"

"Painting!" she declared triumphantly. "I have had this in my mind for
some time, and I have been trying to see what I can do best. I have
quite decided, now, to be an artist."

"Pictures," he declared sententiously, "don'