still go with Mrs. Friend."

She made no answer. Another knock at the door.

"There's Geoffrey. Come in, old boy. We've only just begun."

Half an hour's exhibition followed. Both Helena and French were
intelligent spectators, and their amazement at the quality and variety of
the work shown them seemed half-welcome, half-embarrassing to their host.

"Why don't you go on with it? Why don't you exhibit?" cried Helena.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"It doesn't interest me now. It's a past phase."

She longed to ask questions. But his manner didn't encourage it. And when
the half-hour was done he looked at his watch.

"Dressing-time," he said, smiling, holding it out to Helena. She rose at
once. Philip was a delightful artist, but the operations of dressing
were not to be trifled with. Her thanks, however, for "a lovely time!"
and her pleading for a second show on the morrow, were so graceful, so
sweet, that French, as he silently put the drawings back, felt his
spirits drop to zero. What could have so changed the thorny, insolent
girl of six weeks before--but the one thing? He stole a glance at
Buntingford. Surely he must realize what was happening--and his huge
responsibility--he _must_.

Helena disappeared. Geoffrey volunteered to tie up a portfolio they had
only half examined, while Buntingford finished a letter. While he was
handling it, the portfolio slipped, and a number of drawings fell out
pell-mell upon the floor.

Geoffrey stooped to pick them up. A vehement exclamation startled
Buntingford at his desk.

"What's the matter, Geoffrey?"

"Philip! _That's_ the woman I saw!--that's her face!--I could swear to it
anywhere!"

He pointed with excitement to the drawing of a woman's head and
shoulders, which had fallen out from the very back of the portfolio,
whereof the rotting straps and fastenings showed that it had not been
opened for many years.

Buntingford came to his side. He looked at the drawing--then at French.
His face seemed suddenly to turn grey and old.

"My God!" he said under his breath, and again, still lower--"_My God_! Of
course. I knew it!"

He dropped into a chair beside Geoffrey, and buried his face in
his hands.

Geoffrey stared at him in silence, a bewildering tumult of ideas and
conjectures rushing through his brain.

Another knock at the door. Buntingford rose automatically, went to the
door, spoke to the servant who had knocked, and came back with a note in
his hand, whic