is folly was apparent to him; at the sight of this other beside her, a
sharp twinge of jealousy had run through him and disturbed his balance.
He gazed ardently at her in the hope that she would look round, but it
was only the man--he was caressing his slight moustache and hitting at
loose stones while the girls talked--who turned, as if drawn by
Maurice's stare, and looked full at him, with studied insolence. In
him, Maurice recognised the violinist of the concert, but he, too, was
taller than he had believed, and much younger. A mere boy, said Maurice
to himself; a mere boy, with a disagreeable dissipated face.

Madeleine Wade came hurrying to rejoin him, apologising for the delay;
the meeting had, however, been fortunate, as she had had a message from
Schwarz to deliver. Maurice let a few seconds elapse, then asked
without preamble: "Who is that?"

His companion looked quickly at him, struck both by his tone and by his
unconscious use of the singular. The air of indifference with which he
was looking out across the meadowland, told its own tale.

"Schilsky? Don't you know Schilsky? Our Joachim IN SPE?" she asked, to
tease him.

Maurice Guest coloured. "Yes, I heard him play the other night," he
answered in good faith. "But I didn't mean him. I meant the--the lady
he was with."

The girl at his side laughed, not very heartily.

"ET TU, BRUTE!" she said. "I might have known it. It really is
remarkable that though so many people don't think Louise goodlooking--I
have often heard her called plain--yet I never knew a man go past her
without turning his head.--You want to know who and what she is? Well,
that depends on whom you ask. Schwarz would tell you she was one of his
most gifted pupils--but no: he always says that of his pretty girls,
and some do find her pretty, you know."

"She is, indeed, very," said Maurice with warmth. "Though I think
pretty is not just the word."

"No, I don't suppose it is," said Madeleine, and this time there was a
note of mockery in her laugh. But Maurice did not let himself be
deterred. As it seemed likely that she was going to let the subject
rest here, he persisted: "But suppose I asked you--what would you say?"

She gave him a shrewd side-glance. "I think I won't tell you," she
said, more gravely. "If a man has once thought a girl pretty, and all
the rest of it, he's never grateful for the truth. If I said Louise was
a baggage, or a minx, or some other horrid thing, you would