When the car was well under way, Jane turned impressively to her new acquaintance. “And now I want to ask you,” she said, “if you think I’d do for the heroine?” “It’s been my wish ever since I first set eyes on you,” he answered, calmly. “I’m in great luck.” “And the Willoughbys,” said Jane, cheerfully, “will be in a rage, so it’s a delightful arrangement all around.” CHAPTER IV. Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Willoughby--the latter had driven over from her country home to discuss Jane--sat in the library listening to the shrieks of laughter that floated across the hall from the music room, laughter interspersed with the sharp yelping of a dog and bars of music. “They’ve kept that up,” said Mrs. Willoughby, crisply, “since luncheon.” “What did you say his name was?” asked Miss Willoughby, whose patent disgust made her look more vinegary than ever. “She calls him Dick,” said aunt Susan, disdainfully. “His last name is Thomas. A flighty idiot, who talks with a lisp.” “Where’s the bishop?” demanded the guest, suddenly. “He’s packing,” answered her sister-in-law, with an air of repressed anger. “Jane took him out in a motor car, some man’s motor car that she came down in, and he came back looking much upset, and said he had to pack and return to town immediately. And he had promised to stay two days!” “Must have been her doings,” commented Miss Willoughby. “I don’t know,” said Aunt Susan, drearily. “He did say something about fleeing temptation.” “The hussy!” Miss Willoughby’s voice expressed virtuous scorn. “Wait until she comes to me.” She closed her lips, grimly. “I was going to tell you about that,” said her hostess. “Jane has what she calls _a job_.” “A--a job!” echoed Miss Willoughby, faintly. Susan Willoughby nodded her head, vigorously. “That’s what she calls it,” she said, indignation revealed in every monosyllable. “She’s hired out as a model!” Miss Willoughby shrieked and fumbled feebly for her smelling salts. “Oh, I don’t mean the--er--_Trilby_ kind, you know,” said Mrs. Willoughby, hastily. “Some wretched creature whom she picked up with on her way down here is writing a book, and he’s offered to pay her if she’ll let him study her in order to get material for his heroine.” “I never heard of such a thing!” gasped Miss Willoughby. “It isn’t respectable, and you don’t need to try to convince me that it is. What does Jacob say?” “Jacob!” There was indescribable contempt expressed in Mrs. Willoughby’s voice as she uttered the name. “Jane simply twists him around her little finger.” Miss Willoughby rose suddenly, with the air of one having made up her mind to perform an unpleasant task. “Where are you going?” demanded her hostess. “To tell Jane what I think of her conduct and to warn----”