n."

"Married?"

"Oh dear no, though of course she calls herself 'Madame' like the rest
of them--Madame Vavasour. I have reason, however, to believe that her
real name is Flink--Elena Flink. And I should say--very much on the
look-out for a husband; and meanwhile very much courted by boys--who go
to what she calls her 'evenings.' It is odd, the taste that some youths
have for these elderly Circes."

"Elderly?" said Doris, busy the while with her own preparations. "I was
hoping for something young and beautiful!"

"Young?--no!--an unmistakable thirty-five. Beautiful? Well, wait till
you see her ... H'm--that shoulder won't do!"--Doris had just placed a
preliminary sketch of one of her "subjects" under his eyes--"and that
bit of perspective in the corner wants a lot of seeing to. Look here!"
The old Academician, brought up in the spirit of Ingres--"le dessin,
c'est la probite!--le dessin, c'est l'honneur!"--fell eagerly to work on
the sketch, and Doris watched.

They were both absorbed, when there was a knock at the door. Doris
turned hastily, expecting to see the model. Instead of which there
entered, in response to Bentley's "Come in!" a girl of four or five and
twenty, in a blue linen dress and a shady hat, who nodded a quiet "Good
afternoon" to the artist, and proceeded at once with an air of business
to a writing-table at the further end of the studio, covered with
papers.

"Miss Wigram," said the artist, raising his voice, "let me introduce you
to my niece, Mrs. Meadows."

The girl rose from her chair again and bowed. Then Doris saw that she
had a charming tired face, beautiful eyes on which she had just placed
spectacles, and soft brown hair framing her thin cheeks.

"A novelty since you were here," whispered Bentley in Doris's ear.
"She's an accountant--capital girl! Since these Liberal budgets came
along, I can't keep my own accounts, or send in my own income-tax
returns--dash them! So she does the whole business for me--pays
everything--sees to everything--comes once a week. We shall all be run
by the women soon!"

* * * * *

The studio had grown very quiet. Through some glass doors open to the
garden came in little wandering winds which played with some loose
papers on the floor, and blew Doris's hair about her eyes as she stooped
over her easel, absorbed in her drawing. Apparently absorbed: her
subliminal mind, at least, was far away, wandering on a craggy Scotch
mo