“It must be a stirring life,” said Clytie half aloud, with a quick glance at Hammerdyke. “It is the best life. Action, excitement, keen enjoyment of everything! You should take a turn at it, George.” But George shook his head. “I have a wife dependent upon me. Otherwise you may be sure I would leave this effete and effeminate civilisation and start to-morrow.” “I don't think you would do much good out there,” said Mrs. Farquharson candidly. They finished dinner early and went up to the drawing-room, which not long afterwards was filled with the heterogeneous crowd that the Farquharsons loved to gather round them. This reception was instead of the ordinary Sunday one, and was in Thornton's honour, although it was not unusual for Caroline thus to change her evening, scattering warning post-cards the day before. Kent, being on the list, had received one that morning, and before he saw Clytie had been half wondering whether he should go to Harley Street. So he had put his question as to Clytie's evening engagement tentatively. Her somewhat evasive reply had decided him. He would not inflict his society upon her. As Clytie's eye wandered over the familiar figures in the drawing-room, she involuntarily sought for Kent's. It seemed strange that he should not be there, for during the autumn he had scarcely missed a Sunday. One or two friends came up and asked after him. On the occasion of one inquiry, Mrs. Farquharson and Thornton were standing by her. “Who is Kent that everybody is talking about--if I may ask?” said Hammerdyke. “Kent?” interposed Caroline. “Oh if you know Clytie, you must know Kent. They are a kind of Mentor and Egeria combination.” “That's lucid,” said Hammerdyke, laughing. “I hope you will present me to him one of these days, Miss Davenant.” Clytie replied with a commonplace, smiling absently. She was sad at heart about Kent. Soon Redgrave, the R. A. who had given Clytie her first encouragement in her art, came up to talk with her. He had been following her career with some interest. Since the exhibition of “Jack” he had not seen her, and he took the opportunity of offering his congratulations, criticising the picture favourably. Then he inquired after its successor. “But I don't think you will ever become a great artist, if you keep to that semi-impressionist style.” Being a portrait-painter of exquisite finish, Redgrave was prejudiced against the school of Degas. He mentioned his name with some acerbity. “Talking treason again, Redgrave?” asked a thin, wiry man in gold spectacles, who had overheard. “Don't listen to him, Miss Davenant. He is archaic and eating his soul out with jealousy. There's no one in England who can touch you in your particular line. You stick to it!” “You are quoting the rubbish you wrote in your paper, French,” said Redgrave, laughing. “Now, whom are you going to believe, this newspaper man or me?” “Whoever will help me best to sell my pictures,” laughed Clytie.