"

She went almost as red as her frock.

"I thought you were only being polite. I oughtn't to have asked. Of
course, I want to awfully--only I know it'll bore you."

"It won't at all."

She looked up at that. What peculiar languorous eyes they were!

"Shall I come to-morrow, then?"

"Any day you like, between half-past twelve and one."

"Where?"

He took out a card.

"Mark Lennan--yes--I like your name. I liked it the other day. It's
awfully nice!"

What was in a name that she should like him because of it? His fame as
a sculptor--such as it was--could have nothing to do with that, for she
would certainly not know of it. Ah! but there was a lot in a name--for
children. In his childhood what fascination there had been in the words
macaroon, and Spaniard, and Carinola, and Aldebaran, and Mr. McCrae. For
quite a week the whole world had been Mr. McCrae--a most ordinary friend
of Gordy's.

By whatever fascination moved, she talked freely enough now--of her
school; of riding and motoring--she seemed to love going very fast;
about Newmarket--which was 'perfect'; and theatres--plays of the type
that Johnny Dromore might be expected to approve; these together with
'Hamlet' and 'King Lear' were all she had seen. Never was a girl so
untouched by thought, or Art--yet not stupid, having, seemingly, a
certain natural good taste; only, nothing, evidently, had come her way.
How could it--'Johnny Dromore duce, et auspice Johnny Dromore!' She had
been taken, indeed, to the National Gallery while at school. And Lennan
had a vision of eight or ten young maidens trailing round at the
skirts of one old maiden, admiring Landseer's dogs, giggling faintly at
Botticelli's angels, gaping, rustling, chattering like young birds in a
shrubbery.

But with all her surroundings, this child of Johnny Dromoredom was as
yet more innocent than cultured girls of the same age. If those
grey, mesmeric eyes of hers followed him about, they did so frankly,
unconsciously. There was no minx in her, so far.

An hour went by, and Dromore did not come. And the loneliness of this
young creature in her incongruous abode began telling on Lennan's
equanimity.

What did she do in the evenings?

"Sometimes I go to the theatre with Dad, generally I stay at home."

"And then?"

"Oh! I just read, or talk French."

"What? To yourself?"

"Yes, or to Oliver sometimes, when he comes in."

So Oliver came in!

"How long have you known Oliver?"

"Oh