ct to old Peter. Before Mrs. Rooth
could answer this question, however, Miriam broke across with one of her
own. "Do you mind telling me if you made your sister go off with Mr.
Sherringham because you knew it was about time for me to turn up? Poor
Mr. Dormer, I get you into trouble, don't I?" she added quite with
tenderness.

"Into trouble?" echoed Nick, looking at her head but not at her eyes.

"Well, we won't talk about that!" she returned with a rich laugh.

He now hastened to say that he had nothing to do with his sister's
leaving the studio--she had only come, as it happened, for a moment. She
had walked away with Peter Sherringham because they were cousins and old
friends: he was to leave England immediately, for a long time, and he
had offered her his company going home. Mrs. Rooth shook her head very
knowingly over the "long time" Mr. Sherringham would be absent--she
plainly had her ideas about that; and she conscientiously related that
in the course of the short conversation they had all had at the door of
the house her daughter had reminded Miss Dormer of something that had
passed between them in Paris on the question of the charming young
lady's modelling her head.

"I did it to make the idea of our meeting less absurd--to put it on the
footing of our both being artists. I don't ask you if she has talent,"
said Miriam.

"Then I needn't tell you," laughed Nick.

"I'm sure she has talent and a very refined inspiration. I see something
in that corner, covered with a mysterious veil," Mrs. Rooth insinuated;
which led Miriam to go on immediately:

"Has she been trying her hand at Mr. Sherringham?"

"When should she try her hand, poor dear young lady? He's always sitting
with us," said Mrs. Rooth.

"Dear mamma, you exaggerate. He has his moments--when he seems to say
his prayers to me; but we've had some success in cutting them down. _Il
s'est bien detache ces jours-ci_, and I'm very happy for him. Of course
it's an impertinent allusion for me to make; but I should be so
delighted if I could think of him as a little in love with Miss Dormer,"
the girl pursued, addressing Nick.

"He is, I think, just a little--just a tiny bit," her artist allowed,
working away; while Mrs. Rooth ejaculated to her daughter
simultaneously:

"How can you ask such fantastic questions when you know he's dying for
_you_?"

"Oh dying!--he's dying very hard!" cried Miriam. "Mr. Sherringham's a
man of whom I can't speak with t