staring at his unfinished sheep-dogs in
the gathering dusk. Again that sense of irritation at contact with
something strange, hostile, uncomprehending! Why let these Dromores into
his life like this? He shut the studio, and went back to the
drawing-room. Sylvia was sitting on the fender, gazing at the fire, and
she edged along so as to rest against his knees. The light from a candle
on her writing-table was shining on her hair, her cheek, and chin, that
years had so little altered. A pretty picture she made, with just that
candle flame, swaying there, burning slowly, surely down the pale
wax--candle flame, of all lifeless things most living, most like a
spirit, so bland and vague, one would hardly have known it was fire at
all. A drift of wind blew it this way and that: he got up to shut the
window, and as he came back; Sylvia said:

"I like Mr. Dromore. I think he's nicer than he looks."

"He's asked me to make a statuette of his daughter on horseback."

"And will you?"

"I don't know."

"If she's really so pretty, you'd better."

"Pretty's hardly the word--but she's not ordinary."

She turned round, and looked up at him, and instinctively he felt that
something difficult to answer was coming next.

"Mark."

"Yes."

"I wanted to ask you: Are you really happy nowadays?"

"Of course. Why not?"

What else to be said? To speak of those feelings of the last few
months--those feelings so ridiculous to anyone who had them not--would
only disturb her horribly.

And having received her answer, Sylvia turned back to the fire, resting
silently against his knees. . . .

Three days later the sheep-dogs suddenly abandoned the pose into which he
had lured them with such difficulty, and made for the studio door. There
in the street was Nell Dromore, mounted on a narrow little black horse
with a white star, a white hoof, and devilish little goat's ears,
pricked, and very close together at the tips.

"Dad said I had better ride round and show you Magpie. He's not very
good at standing still. Are those your dogs? What darlings!"

She had slipped her knee already from the pummel, and slid down; the
sheep-dogs were instantly on their hind-feet, propping themselves against
her waist. Lennan held the black horse--a bizarre little beast, all fire
and whipcord, with a skin like satin, liquid eyes, very straight hocks,
and a thin bang-tail reaching down to them. The little creature had none
of those commonp