res in the same mould as his sister's, and produced a very
striking effect by giving him the same dark eyebrows and lashes, with
blue eyes and a mass of light brown hair. Detractors complained that the
type was too feminine for their taste; but when challenged to show a
single weak line in his face, they evaded the point and laid stress on
the delicate pallor of his complexion. Not that it mattered, for Ted
soon made you think as little of his good looks as he did himself. But
Audrey never forgot him as she first saw him, glowing with exercise and
the midday bath which had roused his landlady's indignation.

"I'm extremely sorry," he began airily, "for disappearing in that rude
way."

"Perhaps I ought to apologise," said Audrey, "for I frightened you
away."

"Not at all, though I was desperately frightened too. I was flying
before Mrs. Rogers when you came in. You'll probably think I ought to
have braved it out, just for the look of the thing--especially after her
reflections on my social position--but unfortunately my sister has
imbued that terrible woman with the belief that art can't possibly
flourish anywhere outside this attic of hers. Ever since then she's kept
us in the most humiliating subjection. I don't want you to think badly
of Mrs. Rogers: there's no malice about her; she wouldn't raise your
rent suddenly, or leave pails of water on the stairs, or anything of
that kind, and she's capable of really deep feeling when it's a question
of dinner."

"Ted--if you _can_ forget Mrs. Rogers for a minute--I told Miss Craven
that you would show her some of your sketches and things some day."

"All right; we'll have the exhibition to-day, if Miss Craven cares to
stop. Plenty of time before the light goes."

Audrey hesitated: but Miss Haviland had moved aside her own easel to
make room for her brother's; she seconded his invitation, and Miss
Craven stopped.

Three months ago, in an Oxford drawing-room, she had found herself
absorbing metaphysics, as it were through the pores of her skin, without
any previous discipline in that exacting science; now, in a London
studio, she became aware of a similarly miraculous influx of power.
Yesterday she would have told you that she knew nothing about art, and
cared less. To-day it seemed that she had lived in its atmosphere from
her cradle, and learned its language at her nurse's knee. But, though
familiar with art, she was not prepared for the behaviour of the artist.
Ted