the gentleman who had first spoken declared to Mrs. St. George.
"At my bidding?"

"Didn't you make him go to church?"
"I never made him do anything in my life but once - when I made him

burn up a bad book. That's all!" At her "That's all!" our young
friend broke into an irrepressible laugh; it lasted only a second,

but it drew her eyes to him. His own met them, though not long
enough to help him to understand her; unless it were a step towards

this that he saw on the instant how the burnt book - the way she
alluded to it! - would have been one of her husband's finest

things.
"A bad book?" her interlocutor repeated.

"I didn't like it. He went to church because your daughter went,"
she continued to General Fancourt. "I think it my duty to call

your attention to his extraordinary demonstrations to your
daughter."

"Well, if you don't mind them I don't," the General laughed.
"Il s'attache e ses pas. But I don't wonder - she's so charming."

"I hope she won't make him burn any books!" Paul Overt ventured to
exclaim.

"If she'd make him write a few it would be more to the purpose,"
said Mrs. St. George. "He has been of a laziness of late - !"

Our young man stared - he was so struck with the lady's
phraseology. Her "Write a few" seemed to him almost as good as her

"That's all." Didn't she, as the wife of a rare artist, know what
it was to produce one perfect work of art? How in the world did

she think they were turned on? His private conviction was that,
admirably as Henry St. George wrote, he had written for the last

ten years, and especially for the last five, only too much, and
there was an instant during which he felt inwardly solicited to

make this public. But before he had spoken a diversion was
effected by the return of the absentees. They strolled up

dispersedly - there were eight or ten of them - and the circle
under the trees rearranged itself as they took their place in it.

They made it much larger, so that Paul Overt could feel - he was
always feeling that sort of thing, as he said to himself - that if

the company had already been interesting to watch the interest
would now become intense. He shook hands with his hostess, who

welcomed him without many words, in the manner of a woman able to
trust him to understand and conscious that so pleasant an occasion

would in every way speak for itself. She offered him no particular
facility for sitting by her, and when they had all subsided again

he found himself still next General Fancourt, with an unknown lady
on his other flank.

"That's my daughter - that one opposite," the General said to him
without lose of time. Overt saw a tall girl, with magnificent red

hair, in a dress of a pretty grey-green tint and of a limp silken
texture, a garment that clearly shirked every modern effect. It

had therefore somehow the stamp of the latest thing, so that our
beholder quickly took her for nothing if not contemporaneous.

"She's very handsome - very handsome," he repeated while he
considered her. There was something noble in her head, and she

appeared fresh and strong.
Her good father surveyed her with complacency, remarking soon:

"She looks too hot - that's her walk. But she'll be all right
presently. Then I'll make her come over and speak to you."

"I should be sorry to give you that trouble. If you were to take
me over THERE - !" the young man murmured.

"My dear sir, do you suppose I put myself out that way? I don't
mean for you, but for Marian," the General added.

"I would put myself out for her soon enough," Overt replied; after
which he went on: "Will you be so good as to tell me which of

those gentlemen is Henry St. George?"
"The fellow talking to my girl. By Jove, he IS making up to her -

they're going off for another walk."
"Ah is that he - really?" Our friend felt a certain surprise, for

the personage before him seemed to trouble a vision which had been
vague only while not confronted with the reality. As soon as the

reality dawned the mental image, retiring with a sigh, became
substantial enough to suffer a slight wrong. Overt, who had spent

a considerable part of his short life in foreign lands, made now,
but not for the first time, the reflexion that whereas in those

countries he had almost always recognised the artist and the man of
letters by his personal "type," the mould of his face, the

character of his head, the expression of his figure and even the
indications of his dress, so in England this identification was as

little as possible a matter of course, thanks to the greater
conformity, the habit of sinking the profession instead of

advertising it, the general diffusion of the air of the gentleman -
the gentleman committed to no particular set of ideas. More than

once, on returning to his own country, he had said to himself about
people met in society: "One sees them in this place and that, and

one even talks with them; but to find out what they DO one would
really have to be a detective." In respect to several individuals

whose work he was the opposite of "drawn to" - perhaps he was wrong
- he found himself adding "No wonder they conceal it - when it's so

bad!" He noted that oftener than in France and in Germany his
artist looked like a gentleman - that is like an English one -

while, certainly outside a few exceptions, his gentlemen didn't
look like an artist. St. George was not one of the exceptions;

that circumstance he definitely apprehended before the great man
had turned his back to walk off with Miss Fancourt. He certainly

looked better behind than any foreign man of letters - showed for
beautifully correct in his tall black hat and his superior frock

coat. Somehow, all the same, these very garments - he wouldn't
have minded them so much on a weekday - were disconcerting to Paul

Overt, who forgot for the moment that the head of the profession
was not a bit better dressed than himself. He had caught a glimpse

of a regular face, a fresh colour, a brown moustache and a pair of
eyes surely never visited by a fine frenzy, and he promised himself

to study these denotements on the first occasion. His superficial
sense was that their owner might have passed for a lucky

stockbroker - a gentleman driving eastward every morning from a
sanitary suburb in a smart dog-cart. That carried out the

impression already derived from his wife. Paul's glance, after a
moment, travelled back to this lady, and he saw how her own had

followed her husband as he moved off with Miss Fancourt. Overt
permitted himself to wonder a little if she were jealous when

another woman took him away. Then he made out that Mrs. St. George
wasn't glaring at the indifferentmaiden. Her eyes rested but on

her husband, and with unmistakeable serenity. That was the way she
wanted him to be - she liked his conventional uniform. Overt

longed to hear more about the book she had induced him to destroy.
CHAPTER II

As they all came out from luncheon General Fancourt took hold of
him with an "I say, I want you to know my girl!" as if the idea had

just occurred to him and he hadn't spoken of it before. With the
other hand he possessed himself all paternally of the young lady.

"You know all about him. I've seen you with his books. She reads
everything - everything!" he went on to Paul. The girl smiled at

him and then laughed at her father. The General turned away and
his daughter spoke - "Isn't papa delightful?"

"He is indeed, Miss Fancourt."
"As if I read you because I read 'everything'!"