Jean Leslie sat long over the teacups, deep in thought. Mechanically, she found and lit a cigarette, and smoked it to the end. Then she lit another. Darkness had fallen by this time, but still she sat on, gazing into the glowing fire. At last she rose, and turned up the electric lights. Having done this, she surveyed herself intently in the mirror over the mantelpiece. For all her forty-three years she was a youthful woman. She possessed the white teeth and fair complexion that Scandinavian ancestry has bequeathed to the northeastern Highlands of Scotland. Her hair was abundant, and with a little better dressing would have looked more abundant still. She turned from the mirror with a quaint little _moue_, and her eyes fell upon a framed photograph which stood upon her writing-table. It was a portrait of Peggy's mother. She picked it up, and regarded it long and thoughtfully. "Thank God, Death cannot always close the account," she said softly. Then, with a resigned sigh and a downward glance at her comfortable but unfashionable attire, she seated herself abruptly at the bureau and wrote a letter to her dressmaker. CHAPTER XXVI THE RIVALS IT was five o'clock on a fine spring afternoon. The model had just resumed his ordinary raiment and departed, and Montagu Falconer was cleaning his palette. To him entered a timorous maid. "If you please, sir, Miss Leslie has called." "That is quite possible," replied Montagu calmly, "but it does not interest me." "But she wants to see you, sir." "I fear I cannot oblige her. It is Miss Marguerite's duty to receive afternoon callers." "Miss Marguerite is out, and Miss Leslie specially asked for you, sir," persisted the maid, trembling beneath her employer's cold blue eye. Montagu Falconer ruminated for some moments. Unfortunately he omitted to remove his eye from the maid, and that sensitive young person was on the verge of an hysterical yell when he turned upon his heel and said curtly:-- "Ask her what the devil she wants." The maid humbly withdrew. Having closed the studio door behind her she indulged in a few grimaces of a heartfelt and satisfying character, and after pausing to admire herself for a brief space in a Venetian mirror conveniently adjacent, returned to the drawing-room, where she took her stand before Miss Leslie with downcast eyes. "Mr. Falconer sends his compliments, miss," she announced deferentially, "and would be very much obliged if you could say whether you wanted him particular, because he is painting a picture." Jean Leslie smiled. She was wondering what Montagu really had said. But to the maid she merely replied:-- "Is the model there?" "No, miss. Models go at five." "Then say to Mr. Falconer that I should be greatly obliged if he could see me for a few minutes, as I wish to consult him upon an important matter."