; "there were ways," she would say, "of
doing them."

And in Mr. Savage Keith Rickman she had divined a nature no less
generously gifted. He could afford to take what she could afford to
offer; better still, he would take just so much and no more. With some
people certain possibilities were moral miracles; and her instinct
told her that this man's mind was incapable of vulgar misconception.
She was safe with him. These things she pondered during that brief
time when Rickman lingered in the portrait gallery.

He saw her again that night for yet another moment. Lucia was called
back into the picture gallery by the voice of Kitty Palliser, whose
return coincided with his departure. Kitty, from the safe threshold of
the drawing-room, looked back after his retreating figure.

"Poor darling, he has dressed himself with care."

"He always does. He has broken every literary convention."

Lucia drew Kitty into the room and shut the door.

"Has he been trying any more experiments in diminished friction on
polished surfaces?"

"No; there was a good deal more repose about him after you left. The
friction was decidedly diminished. What do you think of him?"

"Oh, I rather like the way he drops his aitches. It gives a pathetic
piquancy to his conversation."

"Don't Kitty."

"I won't. But, after all, how do we know that this young man is not a
fraud?"

"How do we know anything?"

"Oh, if you're going to be metaphysical, _I_'m off to my little bed."

"Not yet, Kitty. Sit down and toast your toes. I want to talk to you."

"All right, fire away."

But Lucia hesitated; Kitty was in an unpropitious mood.

"What do you think I've done?" she said.

Kitty's green eyes danced merrily; but in spite of their mockery Lucia
told her tale.

"It was the best I could do," said she.

Kitty's eyes had left off dancing.

"Lucia, you _can't_. It's impossible. You must _not_ go on being so
kind to people. Remember, dear, if he is a heaven-born genius, he's
not--he really _is_ not a gentleman."

"I know. I've thought of that. But if he isn't a gentleman, he isn't
the other thing. He's something by himself.

"I admit he's a genius, but--he drops his aitches."

"He doesn't drop half as many as he did. He only does it when he's
flustered. And I won't let him be flustered. I shall be very kind to
him."

"Oh," groaned Kitty, "there's no possible doubt about that."

"On the whole I think I'm rather glad he isn't a gentleman. He w