n reputed to have seen a real salamander
in the fire, and he only remembered the fact because his father beat
him lest he should forget it."

"Ben who?" broke in Robert cheerfully.

"Benvenuto Cellini."

"Never heard of him.... Well, let's have a peep-o. Miss Manning and I
dine at a quarter to eight. You've been taking some snapshots in the
park, I'm told. If they've got any ginger in them----"

"Probably you will describe them as hot stuff," said Trenholme, laying
a portfolio on the wall in front of Sylvia and opening it.

"This is a pencil drawing of the great gates," he went on, ignoring
Fenley. "Of course, they're Wren's, and therefore beautiful. Roxton
Park holds a real treasure in those gates, Miss Manning. Here is a
water-color sketch of the house and grounds. Do you like it?"

"Oh, it is exquisite! Why, you have caught the very glint of sunshine
on the walls and roofs, and it is shimmering in the leaves of that
copper beech. Ah me! It looks so easy."

Robert peered over her shoulder. Sylvia's gasp of admiration annoyed
him; but he looked and said nothing.

"This," continued Trenholme, "is an unfinished study of the lake. I
was so busily occupied that I was not aware of your presence until you
were quite near at hand. Then when you dived into the water I grabbed
a canvas and some tubes of paint. Here is the result--completed, to a
large extent, in my room at the inn."

He took a picture out of a compartment of the portfolio specially
constructed to protect an undried surface, and placed it at an angle
that suited the light. His tone was unconcerned, for he had steeled
himself against this crucial moment. Would she be angered? Would those
limpid blue eyes, violet now in shadow, be raised to his in protest
and vexed dismay? During the brief walk to and from the inn he had
recollected the girl's age, her surroundings, the cramping influences
of existence in a society of middle-class City folk. He felt like a
prisoner awaiting a verdict when the issue was doubtful, and a wave of
impulse might sway the jury one way or the other.

But he held his head high, and his face flushed slightly, for there
could be no gainsaying the message glowing from that cunning brush
work. There were two goddesses, one in marble and one palpitating with
life. The likeness, too, was undeniable. If one was a replica of Greek
art at its zenith, the other was unmistakably Sylvia Manning.

The girl gazed long and earnestly. Her pal