ith a look of amusement, which seemed to say
that she was not at all duped by his compliment. He proceeded to justify
it.

"I'll tell you who do imitate him--"

And forthwith he began to show a remarkable knowledge of certain advanced
groups among the younger artists and their work. Lydia's face kindled.
She listened; she agreed; she interrupted; she gave her view; it was
evident that the conversation both surprised and delighted her.

Tea came out, and, at Faversham's invitation, Lydia presided. The talk
between her and Faversham flowed on, in spite of the girl's pretty
efforts to make it general, to bring Tatham into it. He himself defeated
her. He wanted to listen; so did Mrs. Penfold, who sat in open-mouthed
wonder at Lydia's cleverness; while Tatham was presently conscious of a
strong discomfort, a jealous discomfort, which spoilt for him this
nearness to Lydia, and the thrill stirred in him by her movements and
tones, her soft laugh, her white neck, her eyes....

Here, between these two people, Faversham and Lydia, who had only seen
each other for some ten minutes in their lives before, there seemed to
have arisen, at once, an understanding, a freemasonry, such as he himself
had never reached in all his meetings with Lydia Penfold.

How had it come about? They talked of people, struggling people, to whom
art was life, though also livelihood; of men and women, for whom nothing
else counted, beside the fascination and the torment of their work; Lydia
speaking from within, as a humble yet devout member of the band;
Faversham, as the keen spectator and amateur--not an artist, but the
frequenter of artists.

And all the time Lydia's face wore a happy animation which redoubled its
charm. Faversham was clearly making a good impression upon her, was
indeed set on doing so, helped always by the look of delicacy, the traces
of suffering, which appealed to her pity. Tatham moved restlessly in his
chair, and presently he got up, and proposed to Mrs. Penfold that they
should examine the improvements in the garden.

* * * * *

When they returned, Lydia and Faversham were still talking and still
absorbed.

"Lydia, my dear," cried her mother, "I am afraid we shall be tiring Mr.
Faversham! Now you must let Lord Tatham show you the garden--that's been
made in a _week_! It's like that part in 'Monte Cristo,' where he orders
an avenue at breakfast-time, that's to be ready by dinner--don't you