ily withdrew so much of
her protest as touched her friend.

"You are a silly person, but a dear," she said contritely; "and I
didn't really mean what I said about receptions--at least, about yours.
But I meant every word about Cousin Henrietta."

A slight shadow of doubt lingered in Isabel's eyes, and Helen, seeing
it, crossed quickly over to the divan and kissed her lightly on the
cheek. The olive branch was accepted and peace restored.

"All the same," Miss Maitland presently went on, "there are times, I
confess, when I get so tired of some of the things I do that I feel as
though I couldn't possibly do them again."

Isabel nodded understandingly.

"Is there anything in particular that you are so tired of?" she
insinuatingly asked.

"Yes, Miss Portia, there is. And furthermore you know as well as I do
what that something is."

"I would hesitate to mention it," said Miss Hurd, with a smile.

"Well, I wouldn't. On the contrary I freely and unqualifiedly announce
that I am excessively tired of a thousand things, most of which begin
with P. I am tired of portraits and portrait painters; I am tired of
posing and of poseurs; I am tired of palettes and paint; I am tired
of--" she stopped, breaking off a little suddenly.

"Well, complete it. You are tired of Pelgram, I suppose," said Isabel,
composedly.

"Pelgram, then. Yes, I am," the other girl admitted.

Her friend raised her eyebrows, and glanced at her somewhat curiously.

"You don't have to marry him, you know," she remarked in a
matter-of-fact tone.

"Of course I don't," Helen replied quickly. "But I have to sit to him
four times a week until that unspeakable portrait is finished. And
it's my belief that it never will be finished. He won't even let me
look at it now. It's my opinion that he's doing like Penelope, and
destroying every night what he has accomplished during the day. I
would never have promised to have it done if I had suspected what I was
in for. And if it were for any one else but old Aunt Mary Wardrop, I'd
back out now."

Isabel regarded her sympathetically. A portrait was bad enough without
the added embarrassment of an amatory artist.

"Is he really as difficult as that?" she asked.

"Even more difficult. He's more difficult than anything
conceivable--except analytical trig," she added reflectively.

"Don't mix art, psychology, and mathematics, or you will certainly get
into trouble," said her friend. "And really,