e
reached the tea table, where immediately he could be heard inquiring
whether the diminutive "arrangements in green and white" were intended
for lettuce sandwiches.

Pelgram glanced quickly toward where Miss Maitland still sat, surrounded
by her attentive friends. It seemed hardly likely that she could have
missed Charlie's distressing incursion into a monologue to which he had
not been invited, but the girl seemed so wholly occupied that the painter
took heart. His ruffled self-esteem preened itself anew, and he moved
circuitously toward the object of his concern in as disinterested a
manner as he could assume. At the sight of their host, the other members
of Miss Maitland's group took occasion inconspicuously to drift away,
being moved either by hunger or by good nature or by fear lest the
monologue recommence. All but one obtuse youth who neither stirred nor
displayed any tendency so to do.

"Before you go I want to show you that full length of Mrs. Warburton,"
the artist suggested pointedly to Helen. Her only attitude was affable
resignation; she accepted the inevitable as gracefully as possible, and
they strolled across the end of the studio to an alcove where a number of
canvases stood coyly awaiting beholders. Several tall potted plants
nearly hid the alcove from the studio at large, and Pelgram noted with
satisfaction that the remaining guests were mostly grouped about
Wilkinson at the other end. He turned, to gain time for thought, to the
pile of frames in the corner, and presently pulled forth the portrait of
which he had spoken.

"Not so interesting an arrangement as I made of you," he commented.

"I might just as well have been a sandwich," was the girl's immediate
thought, but she replied politely, "No."

"I would certainly have been hopelessly lacking in talent of any sort if
I had not been able to do something really fine from the chance you
offered me," he went on.

Feeling quite uncomfortable and not knowing exactly what to say to this,
Helen said nothing. The artist, assuming that her silence implied her
permission for him to continue, cleared his throat for what he felt
should be a master effort.

"Miss Maitland," he said, regarding her gravely, "it is naturally not for
me to say, but I sincerely believe that your portrait is a work of real
merit. And whatever slight ability I may possess has of course been
freely spent on it. But there is something else to consider--there is
abili