"Nothing of the sort!--though she will probably become one. She is a writer--Heaven save the mark!--and I have to pay her vast sums to get her. It is the greatest favour." "A _writer_?" "Poetess!--and journalist!" said Uncle Charles, enjoying Doris's puzzled look. "She sent me her poems yesterday. As to journalism"--his eyes twinkled--"I say nothing--but this. Watch her _hats_! She has the reputation--in certain circles--of being the best-hatted woman in London. All this I get from the man who handed her on to me. As I said to him, it depends on what 'London' you mean." "Married?" "Oh dear no, though of course she calls herself 'Madame' like the rest of them--Madame Vavasour. I have reason, however, to believe that her real name is Flink--Elena Flink. And I should say--very much on the look-out for a husband; and meanwhile very much courted by boys--who go to what she calls her 'evenings.' It is odd, the taste that some youths have for these elderly Circes." "Elderly?" said Doris, busy the while with her own preparations. "I was hoping for something young and beautiful!" "Young?--no!--an unmistakable thirty-five. Beautiful? Well, wait till you see her ... H'm--that shoulder won't do!"--Doris had just placed a preliminary sketch of one of her "subjects" under his eyes--"and that bit of perspective in the corner wants a lot of seeing to. Look here!" The old Academician, brought up in the spirit of Ingres--"le dessin, c'est la probité!--le dessin, c'est l'honneur!"--fell eagerly to work on the sketch, and Doris watched. They were both absorbed, when there was a knock at the door. Doris turned hastily, expecting to see the model. Instead of which there entered, in response to Bentley's "Come in!" a girl of four or five and twenty, in a blue linen dress and a shady hat, who nodded a quiet "Good afternoon" to the artist, and proceeded at once with an air of business to a writing-table at the further end of the studio, covered with papers. "Miss Wigram," said the artist, raising his voice, "let me introduce you to my niece, Mrs. Meadows." The girl rose from her chair again and bowed. Then Doris saw that she had a charming tired face, beautiful eyes on which she had just placed spectacles, and soft brown hair framing her thin cheeks. "A novelty since you were here," whispered Bentley in Doris's ear. "She's an accountant--capital girl! Since these Liberal budgets came along, I can't keep my own accounts, or send in my own income-tax returns--dash them! So she does the whole business for me--pays everything--sees to everything--comes once a week. We shall all be run by the women soon!" * * * * *