ecause of my ability to see and depict the real
things of life, I have received considerable recognition."

"That must give you satisfaction," Lois murmured.

She tried to seem interested, but it was a difficult undertaking.

"It does in a way," and Bramshaw assumed an air of careless
indifference. He was a little man, and his effort made him seem
ridiculous. "But, it is so seldom that one meets with kindred spirits,
don't you know. There are so few who are able to discuss the finer
points of art. I would not mind in the least enlightening those around
me, but they, as a rule, are so unwilling to listen. With you,
however, it is different. You have a trained mind, and that makes such
a vast difference."

Lois was about to make some half-hearted reply, when her eyes rested
upon the face of a girl on the opposite side of the room. It was the
most beautiful and perfect face she had ever seen, and she wondered who
she was and where she had come from. She tried to listen to what
Bramshaw was saying and at the same time watch the girl before her.
She was talking to Dick, and she noted the animated expression upon her
face as she smiled at something he was saying. It must have been about
her for she suddenly turned and their eyes met. For an instant only
the girl hesitated, and then with a graceful movement swept swiftly
across the room and stood before Lois.

"Pardon me," she began, as she took Lois' hand, "I could not help
coming to you as soon as I saw you. Your brother was telling me what a
hard time he had to get you away from your Church work to come to the
party. When I heard that I wanted to meet you at once. I am Margaret
Westcote, and have been in this country but a short time, and
everything is so new and interesting to me."

"Ducedly tame, I call it," Bramshaw interposed before Lois had time to
say a word. "I can't for the life of me see what you find congenial in
a land like this, Miss Westcote."

"It all depends upon what you call tame, Mr. Bramshaw," was the
somewhat sarcastic reply. "If you spend your time thinking only about
yourself it is no wonder you are bored. I haven't heard of your doing
anything worth while since you came to this city."

"Come, come, Miss Westcote," Bramshaw protested, as he stroked his
silky moustache with the soft white fingers of his right hand.
"Artists, you should realise, are generally misunderstood. You cannot
judge us according to ordinary standards. W