disregarded the scandal shadowing the Otway name.

On the morrow, it was made known that the deceased Member of Parliament
would be buried in Yorkshire, in the village churchyard which was on
his own estate. And Otway felt glad of this; the sombre and crowded
hideousness of a London cemetery was no place of rest for John Jacks.

A fortnight later, at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, Piers mounted
with a quick stride the stairs leading to Miss Bonnicastle's abode. The
door of her workroom stood ajar; his knock brought no response; after
hesitating a little, he pushed the door open and went in.

Accustomed to the grotesques and vulgarities which generally met his
eye upon these walls, he was startled to behold a life-size figure of
great beauty, suggesting a study for a serious work of art rather than
a design for a street poster. It was a woman, in classic drapery,
standing upon the seashore, her head thrown back, her magnificent hair
flowing unrestrained, and one of her bare arms raised in a gesture of
exultation. As he gazed at the drawing with delight, Miss Bonnicastle
appeared from the inner room, dressed for walking.

"What do you think of _that_?" she exclaimed.

"Better than anything you ever did!"

"True enough! That's Kite. Don't you recognise his type?"

"One thinks of Ariadne," said Piers, "but the face won't do for her."

"Yes, it's Ariadne--but I doubt if I shall have the brutality to finish
out my idea. She is to have lying on the sand by her a case of
Higginson's Hair-wash, stranded from a wreck, and a bottle of it in her
hand. See the notion? Her despair consoled by discovery of Higginson!"

They laughed, but Piers broke off in half-serious anger.

"That's damnable! You won't do it. For one thing, the mob wouldn't
understand. And in heaven's name do spare the old stories! I'm amazed
that Kite should consent to it."

"Poor old fellow!" said Miss Bonnicastle, with an indulgent smile,
"he'll do anything a woman asks of him. But I shan't have the heart to
spoil it with Higginson; I know I shan't."

"After all," Piers replied, "I don't know why you shouldn't. What's the
use of our scruples? That's the doom of everything beautiful."

"We'll talk about it another time. I can't stop now. I have an
appointment. Stay here if you like, and worship Ariadne. I shouldn't
wonder if Olga looks round this morning, and it'll disappoint her if
there's nobody here."

Piers was embarrassed. He had asked Olga t