pastels and nocturnes were
crowded together in it indistinguishably. Admiration of his work was
necessarily admiration of himself. It was only a question of degree.
With an extraordinary manifestation of good taste and common sense,
amounting almost to inspiration, he had some time since decided that he
would like to marry Miss Maitland, but his admiration for her was so
deep that his self-assurance was shaken to the point of hesitation.
Thus far he had not ventured to speak, but his heart bounded at her
swift defense of him and her effective attack on Wilkinson.

In the brief pause, while Wilkinson was rallying his forces for another
charge on Pelgram's tonal battlements, John M. Hurd entered the room.

Mr. Hurd was a thickset man with a firm, clean-shaven jaw and a face
furrowed by deep lines, but with eyes that oddly enough looked
comparatively youthful and capable not only of appreciating humor, but
even of manufacturing it. He appeared to be a man who, by the exercise
of his pronounced talent for commercial strategy, could drive, without
an atom of pity, his opponent into a corner, but who, after penning him
there, could take an almost boyish amusement in watching the
unfortunate's futile efforts to escape. The magnate was dressed in a
dark cutaway coat with gray trousers, a pear-shaped turquoise pin
adorned his black tie, and his dress fully reflected the solid
respectability of the directors' meeting from which he had just come.

He took up his position, standing with his back to the window, stirring
the sugar in the cup of tea which his daughter had given him. His
entrance had snapped the tension between his impecunious step-nephew
and the painter.

"Well, how are you all?" he remarked genially. "Really, Isabel, you
have quite a salon. How is the portrait going, Helen?--or should I
have asked the artist and not the subject? Glad to see you, Cole--is
the fire insurance business good? Do you know, I made quite a lot of
money out of insurance last year--had it figured out recently."

"In what way, sir?" Cole politely inquired, anticipating the answer.

"By not insuring anything," replied Mr. Hurd, with a short laugh.
"Hello, Charlie, had a busy day?"

As Wilkinson's extreme disinclination for industry of any legitimate
sort was well known to all the party, Mr. Hurd's innocently expressed
but barb-pointed question brought a general smile, and Pelgram
permitted himself the luxury of a suggestive cough