'I know you well enough to know how much happiness to expect. I am a fool. All women are fools. Philippa is a fool. And I've set my foolish heart on--you. If I fail--if I fail'--her words sank to the softest and gentlest murmur--'you are going to cast about for an heiress, and you will get engaged to her, and then--then--we shall see, dear Alec, what will happen then.' She sat up, her cheek fiery, and her eyes flashing, though her voice was so soft. 'Hush!' she whispered. 'I hear Armorel's step!' They heard her voice as well outside, loud and clear. 'Come to my own room,' she said. 'What you want is there. This way.' 'It is the girl with her--the girl who writes. They have gone into her own room--her boudoir--her study--where she works half the day. The girl lives with her brother, close by.' They listened, silent, with hushed breath, like conspirators. 'Poor Armorel!' said Zoe. 'If she only knew what we are plotting! She thinks me the most truthful of women! And all I am here for is to cheat her out of her money! Don't you think I had better make a clean breast and ask her to give me the money and let me go?' 'Begin to-day,' said Alec. 'Begin to talk about me. Interest her in me. Let her know how great and good----' 'Hush!' Then they heard her voice again in the hall. 'No--no--you must come this evening. Bring Archie with you. I will play, and he shall listen. You shall both listen. And then great thoughts will come to you.' 'Always great thoughts--great thoughts--great pictures,' Zoe murmured. 'And we are so infinitely little. Brother worm, shall we crawl into some hole and hide ourselves?' Then the door opened, and Armorel herself appeared, fresh and rosy in spite of the cold wind. 'My dear child,' said Zoe softly, looking up from her cushions, 'come in and sit down. You must be perishing with the east wind. Do sit down and be comfortable. You met Mr. Feilding last night, I believe.' The visitor remained for a quarter of an hour. Armorel had been to see a certain picture in the National Gallery. He talked of pictures just as, the night before, he had talked of music: that is to say, as one who knows all the facts about the painters and their works and their schools: their merits and their defects. He knew and could talk fluently the language of the Art Critic, just as he knew and could talk the language of the Musical Critic. Armorel listened. Now and then she made a remark. But her manner lacked the reverence with which most maidens listened to this thrice-gifted darling of the Muses. She actually seemed not to care very much what he said. Zoe, for her part, lay back in her cushions in silence. 'How do you like him?' she asked, when their visitor left them. 'I don't know; I haven't thought about him. He talks too much, I think. And he talks as if he was teaching.' 'No one has a better right to talk with authority.' 'But we are free to listen or not as we please. Why has he the right to teach everybody?'