him, balancing alternately on heels and
toes, stood regarding Neville's work. Annan looked up, too, watching
Neville where he stood on the scaffolding, busy as always, with the only
recreation he cared anything for--work.

"I wish to Heaven I were infected with the bacillus of industry," broke
out Ogilvy. "I never come into this place but I see Kelly busily doing
something."

"You're an inhuman sort of brute, Kelly!" added Annan. "What do you work
that way for--money? If I had my way I'd spend three quarters of my time
shooting and fishing and one quarter painting--and I'm as devotedly
stuck on art as any healthy man ought to be."

"Art's a bum mistress if she makes you hustle like that!" commented
Ogilvy. "Shake her, Kelly. She's a wampire mit a sarpint's tongue!"

"The worst of Kelly is that he'd _rather_ paint," said Annan,
hopelessly. "It's sufficient to sicken the proverbial cat."

"Get a machine and take us all out to Woodmanston?" suggested Ogilvy.
"It's a bee--u--tiful day, dearie!"

"Get out of here!" retorted Neville, painting composedly.

"Your industry saddens us," insisted Annan. "It's only in mediocrity
that you encounter industry. Genius frivols; talent takes numerous
vacations on itself--"

"And at its own expense," added Valerie, demurely. "I knew a man who
couldn't finish his 'Spring Academy' in time: and he had all winter to
finish it. But he didn't. Did you ever hear about that man, Sam?"

"Me," said Ogilvy, bowing with hand on heart. "And with that cruel jab
from _you_--false fair one--I'll continue heavenward in the elevator.
Come on, Harry."

Annan took an elaborate farewell of Valerie which she met in the same
mock-serious manner; then she waved a gay and dainty adieu to Ogilvy,
and reseated herself after their departure. But this time she settled
down into a great armchair facing Neville and his canvas, and lay back
extending her arms and resting the back of her head on the cushions.

Whether or not Neville was conscious of her presence below she could not
determine, so preoccupied did he appear to be with the work in hand. She
lay there in the pleasant, mellow light of the great windows, watching
him, at first intently, then, soothed by the soft spring wind that
fitfully stirred the hair at her temples, she relaxed her attention,
idly contented, happy without any particular reason.

Now and then a pigeon flashed by the windows, sheering away high above
the sunlit city. Once, wind