a glimmering of what Art meant--of its effort, and
its yearnings!

"You make money at it?"

"Oh, yes."

Again that appreciative goggle, as who should say: 'Ho! there's more in
this than I thought!'

A long silence, then, in the dusk with the violet glimmer from outside
the windows, the fire flickering in front of them, the grey kitten
purring against his neck, the smoke of their cigars going up, and such
a strange, dozing sense of rest, as he had not known for many days. And
then--something, someone at the door, over by the sideboard! And Dromore
speaking in a queer voice:

"Come in, Nell! D'you know my daughter?"

A hand took Lennan's, a hand that seemed to waver between the aplomb
of a woman of the world, and a child's impulsive warmth. And a voice,
young, clipped, clear, said:

"How d'you do? She's rather sweet, isn't she--my kitten?"

Then Dromore turned the light up. A figure fairly tall, in a grey
riding-habit, stupendously well cut; a face not quite so round as
a child's nor so shaped as a woman's, blushing slightly, very calm;
crinkly light-brown hair tied back with a black ribbon under a neat
hat; and eyes like those eyes of Gainsborough's 'Perdita'--slow, grey,
mesmeric, with long lashes curling up, eyes that draw things to them,
still innocent.

And just on the point of saying: "I thought you'd stepped out of that
picture"--he saw Dromore's face, and mumbled instead:

"So it's YOUR kitten?"

"Yes; she goes to everybody. Do you like Persians? She's all fur really.
Feel!"

Entering with his fingers the recesses of the kitten, he said:

"Cats without fur are queer."

"Have you seen one without fur?"

"Oh, yes! In my profession we have to go below fur--I'm a sculptor."

"That must be awfully interesting."

What a woman of the world! But what a child, too! And now he could see
that the face in the sepia drawing was older altogether--lips not so
full, look not so innocent, cheeks not so round, and something sad and
desperate about it--a face that life had rudely touched. But the same
eyes it had--and what charm, for all its disillusionment, its air of
a history! Then he noticed, fastened to the frame, on a thin rod, a
dust-coloured curtain, drawn to one side. The self-possessed young voice
was saying:

"Would you mind if I showed you my drawings? It would be awfully good
of you. You could tell me about them." And with dismay he saw her open a
portfolio. While he scrutinized those schoolgir