lying. Will you come up and see my pictures?"
Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon perceived that
they knew nothing. They passed his last Mauve, that remarkable study of
a 'Hay-cart going Home,' as if it were a lithograph. He waited almost
with awe to see how they would view the jewel of his collection--an
Israels whose price he had watched ascending till he was now almost
certain it had reached top value, and would be better on the market
again. They did not view it at all. This was a shock; and yet to have in
Annette a virgin taste to form would be better than to have the silly,
half-baked predilections of the English middle-class to deal with.
At the end of the gallery was a Meissonier of which he was rather
ashamed--Meissonier was so steadily going down. Madame Lamotte stopped
before it.

"Meissonier! Ah! What a jewel!" Soames took advantage of that moment.
Very gently touching Annette's arm, he said:

"How do you like my place, Annette?"

She did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, looked
down, and murmured:

"Who would not like it? It is so beautiful!"

"Perhaps some day--" Soames said, and stopped.

So pretty she was, so self-possessed--she frightened him. Those
cornflower-blue eyes, the turn of that creamy neck, her delicate
curves--she was a standing temptation to indiscretion! No! No! One must
be sure of one's ground--much surer! 'If I hold off,' he thought, 'it
will tantalise her.' And he crossed over to Madame Lamotte, who was
still in front of the Meissonier.

"Yes, that's quite a good example of his later work. You must come
again, Madame, and see them lighted up. You must both come and spend a
night."

Enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? By moonlight
too, the river must be ravishing!

Annette murmured:

"Thou art sentimental, Maman!"

Sentimental! That black-robed, comely, substantial Frenchwoman of the
world! And suddenly he was certain as he could be that there was no
sentiment in either of them. All the better. Of what use sentiment? And
yet...!

He drove to the station with them, and saw them into the train. To
the tightened pressure of his hand it seemed that Annette's fingers
responded just a little; her face smiled at him through the dark.

He went back to the carriage, brooding. "Go on home, Jordan," he said to
the coachman; "I'll walk." And he strode out into the darkening lanes,
caution and the desire of possession playin