indsor chairs, evidently imported straight from the kitchen. A battered
old writing-desk had an incongruous look when placed next to a costly
buhl clock on a table inlaid indeed with mother-of-pearl, but wanting in
one leg; and so no valuable blue china was apt to pass unobserved upon
the mantelpiece because it was generally found in company with a child's
mug, a plate of crusts, or a painting-rag. A grand piano stood open, and
was strewn with sheets of music; two sketching portfolios conspicuously
adorned the hearth-rug. A tea-table was drawn up near the fire, and the
firelight was reflected pleasantly in the gleaming silver and porcelain
of the tea-service.

The human elements of the scene were very diverse. Mrs. Heron, a
languid-looking, fair-haired woman, lay at full length on one of the
divans. Her step-daughter, Kitty, sat at the tea-table, and Kitty's
elder brother, Percival, a tall, broad-shouldered young man of
eight-and-twenty, was leaning against the mantelpiece. A girl, who
looked about twenty-one years of age was sitting in the deepest shadow
of the room. The firelight played upon her hands, which lay quietly
folded before her in her lap, but it did not touch her face. Two or
three children were playing about the floor with their toys and a white
fox-terrier. The young man was talking very fast, two at least of the
ladies were laughing, the children were squabbling and shouting. It was
a Babel. As Rupert stood at the door he caught the sense of Percival's
last rapid sentences.

"No right nor wrong in the case. You must allow me to say that you take
an exclusively feminine view of the matter, which, of course, is narrow.
I have as much right to sell my brains to the highest bidder as my
friend Vivian has to sell his pictures when he gets the chance--which
isn't often."

"There is nothing like the candour of an impartial friend," said Rupert,
good-humouredly, as he advanced into the room. "Allow me to tell you
that I sold my last painting this morning. How do you do, Mrs. Heron?"

His appearance produced a lull in the storm. Percival ceased to talk and
looked slightly--very slightly--disconcerted. Mrs. Heron half rose;
Kitty made a raid upon the children's toys, and carried some of them to
the other end of the room, whither the tribe followed her, lamenting.
Then, Percival laughed aloud.

"Where did you come from?" he said, in a round, mellow, genial voice,
which was singularly pleasant to the ear. "'Lis