had the
same look.

"Hallo!" cried George. "I see you've got that here!" He pointed to Celia
Agg's portrait of herself as Bonnie Prince Charlie.

"Yes," said Marguerite. "She insisted on me taking it when she gave up
painting."

"Gave up painting?"

"Very good, isn't it?" said Mr. Prince gravely. "Pity she ever did give
up painting, I think," he added in a peculiar tone.

"Yes, it is," George agreed insincerely, for the painting now seemed to
him rather tenth-rate. "But what on earth did she stop painting for?"

Marguerite replied, with reserve:

"Oh! Didn't you know? She's quite gone in for this suffragette business.
No one ever sees her now. Not even her people."

"Been in prison," said Mr. Prince, sardonically disapproving, "I always
said she'd end in that kind of thing, didn't I, Margy?"

"You did, dear," said Marguerite, with wifely eagerness.

These two respected not only themselves but each other. The ensuing
conversation showed that Mr. Prince was somewhat disgusted with the
mundane movement, and that Marguerite was his disciple. They were more
and more leaving the world alone; their self-sufficiency was increasing
with the narrow regularity of their habits. They seldom went out; and
when they did, they came home the more deeply convinced that all was not
well with the world, and that they belonged to the small remnant of the
wise and the sane. George was in two minds about them, or rather about
Mr. Prince. He secretly condescended to him, but on the other hand he
envied him. The man was benevolent; he spent his life in the creation of
beauty; and he was secure. Surely an ideal existence! Yes, George wished
that he could say as much for himself. Marguerite, completely deprived
of ambition, would never have led any man into insecurity. He had
realized already that afternoon that there were different degrees of
success; he now realized that there were different kinds of success.

"Well!" he rose suddenly. "I must be off. I'm very busy."

"I suppose you are," said Mr. Prince. Untrue to assert that his glance
was never wistful! It was ever so slightly wistful then.

George comprehended that Mr. Prince admired him and looked up to him
after all.

"My town hall is being opened to-morrow."

"So I saw," said Mr. Prince. "I congratulate you."

They knew a good deal about him--where he lived, the statistics of his
family, and so on. He picked up his hat.

"I can't tell you how I appreciate your comin