u will perhaps admit that a
little charity greases the wheels."

"_You_ must, because you are a woman; and women are made for
charity--and aristocracy."

"Do you suppose you know so much about women?" she asked him, rather
hotly. "I notice it is always the assumption of the people who make most
mistakes."

"Oh! I know enough to steer by!" he said, smiling, with a little
inclination of his curly head, as though to propitiate her. "How like
you are to that portrait!"

Marcella started, and saw that he was pointing to the woman's portrait
beside the window--looking from it to his hostess with a close
considering eye.

"That was an ancestress of mine," she said coldly, "an Italian lady. She
was rich and musical. Her money built these rooms along the garden, and
these are her music books."

She showed him that the shelves against which she was leaning were full
of old music.

"Italian!" he said, lifting his eyebrows. "Ah, that explains. Do you
know--that you have all the qualities of a leader!"--and he moved away a
yard from her, studying her--"mixed blood--one must always have that to
fire and fuse the English paste--and then--but no! that won't do--I
should offend you."

Her first instinct was one of annoyance--a wish to send him about his
business, or rather to return him to her mother who would certainly keep
him in order. Instead, however, she found herself saying, as she looked
carelessly out of window--

"Oh! go on."

"Well, then"--he drew himself up suddenly and wheeled round upon
her--"you have the gift of compromise. That is invaluable--that will
take you far."

"Thank you!" she said. "Thank you! I know what that means--from a
Venturist. You think me a mean insincere person!"

He started, then recovered himself and came to lean against the
bookshelves beside her.

"I mean nothing of the sort," he said, in quite a different manner, with
a sort of gentle and personal emphasis. "But--may I explain myself, Miss
Boyce, in a room with a fire? I can see you shivering under your fur."

For the frost still reigned supreme outside, and the white grass and
trees threw chill reflected lights into the forsaken library. Marcella
controlled a pulse of excitement that had begun to beat in her, admitted
that it was certainly cold, and led the way through a side door to a
little flagged parlour, belonging to the oldest portion of the house,
where, however, a great log-fire was burning, and some chairs drawn up
r