He spoke low, with a touch of softness in his voice. Clytie felt flattered, touched. It was a little tribute to her womanhood to be pleaded with, especially by a man who, in the eyes of the world, was a recognised heroic figure. There was a latent light, too, in the depths of his dark eyes, a sign of reserved power and strange, unknown forces, that pleased her strangely. All the day she had felt sore, ill at ease, with a little aching, chafing sense of loss. The time had seemed woefully out of joint, and the setting of it right again utterly beyond her powers. But now the world's equilibrium seemed more stable. “I am not sure whether you would care for my pictures,” she said. “Oh, I have seen those that Caroline has,” he replied. “I made her show them to me. I don't know what your art word is--but they seem to me to have a grip upon life that I like.” He could not have chosen words more flattering to Clytie. They summed up bluntly the whole of her ambitions. “You see, I like real things,” he went on. “Something I can catch hold of. All this talk of Art with a capital A, and metaphysical preciousness, is so much froth--at any rate to me. But perhaps you put a capital to it?” “I do, sometimes.” “Well, then, you will teach me what it means. Will you? It will be a way of teaching me something about yourself.” “Oh, I am not worth your learning,” replied Clytie, with a laugh. “But you can come and see my pictures, if you like.” “Thank you,” said Hammerdyke, as he rose in obedience to a beckoning glance from Mr. Farquharson, who was sitting on the other side of the room. “I will come as soon as you will let me. To-morrow, can I?” He looked at her pleadingly, admiringly. Clytie was suddenly brought in contact with a new force, against which she felt powerless. “Yes, you can come to-morrow,” she said CHAPTER XIII. It was an evening in mid-February that Clytie went to a dance given by the Redgraves in their large house in St. John's Wood. Redgrave met her almost as soon as she arrived in the dancing-room. “So you have come at last--we had almost despaired of seeing you. I think there are a good many men you know--all dying to dance with you.” “Oh, give me a little breathing time,” laughed Clytie. “You have had time to fix on your cap and bells, let me adjust mine.” “Don't touch yourself or you would spoil the effect,” said Redgrave, mixing the metaphor for the sake of an opportunity of expressing his admiration of her beauty. “I wish I could paint that portrait of you now: 'Clytie, woman and artist.' There is one advantage about that combination--it assures perfect taste in dress.” He looked her up and down critically, stroking his long gray beard. “I am glad you like me,” said Clytie. “It cost me sleepless nights, I assure you. Didn't you know it was my serious occupation in life?”