rm. Her eyes did not waver as Ewing met them. He saw that
Bartell seemed to identify him in the throng and speak a few words to
the lady. Ewing turned to his companion, discomfort under that steady
survey. A moment later he was drawn to look again and saw Bartell coming
toward him.

"Ah, young man!" His greeting oozed cordiality, the soothing
friendliness of a man fitted to find only the pleasantness of life.

"And come with me, if Mrs. Dudley will let you off--" the lady smiled a
pretty but unreserved assent--"an old friend, Mrs. Lowndes, wants to
know you. She's a dear soul, always jolly. Tell her about cowboys and
things, won't you--something pleasant."

They stood before the woman in the chair, and Bartell uttered a few
words which Ewing did not hear, for at the moment he had glanced up to
see Mrs. Laithe watching him with eyes of such genuine dismay that
confusion overtook him. He wondered what wrong thing he could have done,
but recovered in time to bow and murmur a phrase of acknowledgment. His
new acquaintance indicated a seat beside her, but did not look at him.

"Thank you, Chris. Mr. Ewing will entertain me. Run off to someone as
young as yourself."

Bartell smiled himself back into the more crowded room, and Ewing
waited, apprehending talk like that he had lately undergone. But he
found that this woman who had stared at him so curiously was not
voluble. For a long time she remained silent. Once he glanced up to
observe that her eyes were closed, and seized the moment to study her
face. He thought she was very old--sixty at least. Yet the face showed
strength in its frailness. The cheeks, looking brown under the plenteous
white hair, were lined but not withered, and the curve from brow to chin
revealed more than a suggestion of self-will. A dainty but imperious old
lady he thought her. He might have believed himself forgotten but for an
intimation of waiting thrown out by her manner, a suggestion of leaning
toward him, breathless, one of the gloved hands poising as if to alight
on his arm. He found this less tiring than the compulsion he had lately
been under to agree with a livelier woman about matters strange to him.
And yet he was relieved when she opened her eyes as if to speak. He
regarded her with puzzled but kind expectancy. At last she said, and he
understood that her voice was unnaturally tight and hard:

"Mr. Bartell tells me that you are a painter, Mr. Ewing."

"I'm trying to be--they are ve