im
with humorous understanding, just as they had so often done in life.
He had been a schoolboy when she died, yet even then he had realised
her imagination and love of beauty, coupled with the ability for
bringing out those same qualities in himself.

On the other end of the shelf was a large, shadowy photograph of his
father's present wife, one of the sort known as a "camera study," the
pose exquisite, hair and draperies fading into a dim background, the
eyes wistful and dreamy. Without moving, he examined it
appreciatively. There was no denying that Therese was a lovely woman.

Yet as he looked his face hardened, and he felt the blood slowly mount
until his cheeks burned as though on fire. He was recalling an
incident known to no one but himself, a thing which never failed to
rouse in him sensations of shame and resentment. It belonged to the
early days of his father's second marriage, and before relating it, it
may be as well to explain how the cotton manufacturer came to meet the
present Lady Clifford.

Some years back the old man had made the acquaintance of a Baron and
Baroness de Rummel through the organisation of a musical festival in
Manchester. The de Rummels collected about them at their London house
a varied circle of smart, semi-artistic people. Sir Charles, first and
last a simple business man, having only one point of contact with their
world, enjoyed--perhaps a trifle guiltily--his excursions into so
sophisticated a set, feeling, no doubt, that in some new way for him he
was "seeing life." The men and women he met were ornamental and
amusing, possessed expensive habits, spoke in thousands, and told you
in the same breath that they hadn't a bean. Many might have been
somewhat hazy as to antecedents, but all were well-provided with a
certain stock-in-trade--personal charm. There were young men who
composed music, others who designed everything from a lampshade to the
_decors_ of a ballet, young women who sang or danced, actresses who had
not got on because managers would make love to them--or wouldn't, as
the case might be. All types and many classes were represented, but a
common object bound them together, namely, the hope that in the de
Rummels' drawing-room they might chance upon a "backer," someone
trusting enough to invest money in their enterprises.

In the winter of 1919, the particular star in this artistic zodiac was
Therese Romain, dazzling chiefly on account of her ethereal beaut