r agreeably.

"I think I have read somewhere that the function of present-day
criticism is to befog the mind and blur the object criticised."

He considered an answer, but gave it up when a maid appeared with a
tray, and after a minute of deft arrangement disappeared to return
with the added paraphernalia that goes to the making and consuming of
afternoon tea.

James watched in a pleasant content the easy grace with which the
flashing hands of his hostess manipulated the brew. Presently she flung
open a wing of the elaborate cellaret that stood near and disclosed a
gleaming array of cut-glass decanters. Her fingers hovered over them.

"Cognac?"

"Think I'll take my tea straight just as you make it."

"Most Western men don't care for afternoon tea. You should hear my
father on the subject."

"I can imagine him." He smiled. "But if he has tried it with you I
should think he'd be converted."

She laughed at him in the slow tantalizing way that might mean anything
or nothing. "I absolve you of the necessity of saying pretty things.
Instead, you may continue that portrait you were drawing when the maid
interrupted."

"It's a subject I can't do justice."

She laughed disdainfully. "I thought it was time for the flattery. As
if I couldn't extort that from any man. It's the A B C of our education.
But the truth about one's self--the unpalatable, bitter truth--there's a
sting of unexpected pleasure in hearing that judicially."

"And do you get that pleasure often?"

"Not often. Men are dreadful cowards, you know. My father is about the
only man who dares tell it to me."

Farnum put down his cup and studied her. She was leaning back with her
fingers laced behind her head. He wondered whether she knew with what
effectiveness the posture set off her ripe charms--the fine modeling of
the full white throat, the perfect curves of the dainty arms bare to the
elbows, the daring set of the tawny, tilted head. A spark glowed in his
eyes.

"Far be it from me to deny you an accessible pleasure, though I
sacrifice myself to give it. But my sketch must be merely subjective. I
draw the picture as I see it."

She sipped her tea with an air of considering the matter. "You promise
at least a family likeness, with not an ugly wrinkle of character
smoothed away."

"I don't even promise that. For how am I to know what meaning lurks
behind that subtle, shadowy smile? There's irony in it--and scorn--and
sensuous charm--but back o