t morning, after the departure of
Mrs. Thomas, who had busied herself in them, for a short time, and
ineffectually, with a dustpan, a brush, and a duster, so that there was
no cleaning to be done. Presently it occurred to her that perhaps
there might be some holes in the linen of her host which would be the
better for her mending. A brief examination of his wardrobe showed her
that her surmise was accurate: there was at least a month's hard
mending to be done before that wardrobe would contain garments really
worthy of the name of underclothing. She decided to begin by darning
his socks, for she chanced to have some black darning wool in her
workbox. She brought three pairs of them into the studio, and began to
darn. Nature had been generous, even lavish, to Hilary Vance in the
matter of feet; and his socks were enormous. So were the holes in
them. But their magnitude did not shake Pollyooly's resolve to darn
them.

She had been at work for about three-quarters of an hour when there
came a knock at the door. She went to it in some trepidation,
expecting to find a raging Butterwick on the threshold. She opened it
gingerly, and to her relief looked into the friendly face of Mr. James,
the novelist.

On that friendly face sat the expression of weary resignation with
which he was wont to intervene in the affairs of his great-hearted, but
impulsive, friend.

He greeted Pollyooly warmly, and asked if Hilary Vance were in.
Pollyooly told him the artist was lunching at the Savage Club.

Mr. James hesitated; then walking down the passage into the studio, he
said:

"Well, I expect that you'll be able to tell me the latest news of the
affair. I've just got back from Scotland to find a letter from Mr.
Ruffin to say that Mr. Vance has at last found the lady of his dreams
and is engaged to be married to a florist's assistant of the name of
Flossie. I expect Mr. Ruffin's rotting; he knows what a bother Mr.
Vance is. But I thought I'd better come round and make sure. Do you
know anything about it?"

"I don't think he's engaged to her quite. But he's expecting to be
every day," said Pollyooly.

"Oh, he is, is he?" said Mr. James in a tone of some exasperation.
"What's she like?"

"She's fair, with a lot of fair hair and a very large hat with lots of
flowers in it," said Pollyooly.

"She would be!" broke in Mr. James with a groan.

"And she gives herself airs because of that hat."

"Just what I supposed," sa