husiasts who regard a perfect curve
or an inimitable flesh tint as of vastly greater importance than the
squeamishness of the young person. Painters have their limitations as
well as Mrs. Grundy, and John Trenholme did not suffer a fool gladly.

Sylvia, however, had the good sense to realize that she was listening
to a man whose finer instincts had never been trammeled by conventions
which might be wholesome in an academy for young ladies. Certainly she
wondered what sort of figure she cut in this much debated picture, but
that interesting point would be determined shortly. Meanwhile she
answered demurely enough:

"I'm afraid you have taken me too seriously. I have hardly progressed
beyond the stage where one discovers, with a sort of gasp, that trees
may be blue or red, and skies green. Though I am going to look at your
pictures, Mr. Trenholme, it by no means follows that I shall ever dare
to show you any of mine."

"Still, I think you must have the artistic soul," he said
thoughtfully.

"Why?"

"There was more than mere physical delight in your swimming this
morning. You reveled in the sunlight, in the golden air, in the scents
of trees and shrubs and flowering grass. First-rate swimmer as you
are, you would not have enjoyed that dip half as much if it were taken
in a covered bath, where your eyes dwelt only on white tiles and
dressing-booths."

The girl, subtly aware of a new element in life, was alarmed by its
piercing sweetness, and with ruthless logic brought their talk back to
a commonplace level.

"Roxton seems to be a rather quaint place to find you in, Mr.
Trenholme," she said. "How did you happen on our tiny village? Though
so far from London, we are quite a byway. Why did you pay us a visit?"

So Trenholme dropped to earth again, and they spoke of matters of
slight import till the boundary wall was reached.

Sylvia hailed a man attending cattle in the farmyard, and the artist
vaulted the wall, which was breast high. The girl wondered if she
could do that. When opportunity served she would try. Resting her
elbows on the coping-stones, she watched Trenholme as he hurried away
among the buildings and made for the village. She had never before met
such a man or any one even remotely like him. He differed essentially
from the Fenleys, greatly as the brothers themselves differed. Without
conscious effort to please, he had qualities that appealed strongly to
women, and Sylvia knew now that no considerat