“Oh, quite decently,” she said. “It was not at all awkward. He has tact, I think; or, if he hasn’t, I have. Anyhow there was enough tact about for two.” “No one person has tact for two,” said Miss Fortescue, decidedly. “He must have had some.” Whatever he looked, Jack Collingwood did not feel nearly as brave as a dragoon, unless dragoons are timid things, when he entered the house in the close. But it was not in anticipation of a cool reception due to the picture which made him distrustful of what the next hour would bring. He hardly gave that a thought, for he had seen Jeannie, and it mattered but little what the rest of the world thought, as long as she had an uninjured mind on the subject. Her frank welcome of him, her utter _insouciance_ on the subject--above all, though he scarcely knew it yet himself, the fact that he had met again that vision by the river, combined to make him almost exultantly happy on that score. His errand to his mother, however, was far different, and full of difficulty. She met him with a kind, Christian expression. He had received, so she supposed, her note, and the desire to see her after that was filial and laudable, for the note had been strongly expressed. Not that Mrs. Collingwood regretted that: the occasion demanded strong speaking, and her duty dictated to her. “I am staying with the Aveshams,” he said, “and I remain over the Sunday. Mother, Arthur tells me you have written to me about that picture. I have not received the letter yet, as I started early this morning, but no doubt it will be forwarded to me. Shall we, then, dismiss that for the present, until I have read your note?” “Certainly, if you wish it,” said Mrs. Collingwood, freezing a little. “But if you came here to talk about that, it is better you should know at once what I think.” “I didn’t come to talk about that,” said Jack. “I came to ask your advice and your help about a very different matter.” “I shall be delighted to give it you,” said Mrs. Collingwood, sitting very upright “It is a very sad story I have to tell you,” he said, “and I want experienced advice about it. You can give it me.” Mrs. Collingwood relaxed a little. One of the chief businesses of her life was directing and advising, and she enjoyed it. “Tell me,” she said. “Do you remember a fellow who stayed here once with me from Oxford,” he asked, “called Frank Bennett?” Mrs. Collingwood unbent a little more. She had approved of the young man in question. “Yes, I remember him perfectly,” she said. “He had a beautiful voice, and sang Nazareth after dinner. He sang with great feeling, I remember, and we talked about the aims and career of an oratorio singer.” Jack could not help smiling. Frank had a unique talent, he had always considered, of adaptability. It was exactly like him to sing Nazareth. He sang other things as well, if not better. “Yes,” he said, “I see you remember him. He was one of my closest friends. He is dead.”