He was terribly afraid of her. Those great dark blue eyes seemed to command him. He never could meet them with his own. He relapsed doggedly into his position by the stove. Clytie touched the anemones daintily, picking some faded leaves, still humming her song. In lightness of heart she took off the cloth to look at Winnie's work, and then fell back with a cry of horror and anger. A swift glance at Jack brought her knowledge. “You little fiend!” she cried with eyes aflame, and catching the cowering, sullen urchin by the collar of shirt and jacket, she dragged him out of the studio, on to the landing. Kent happened to have just gone down the stairs on his way out. The noise of the scuffle reached him in the entrance passage and brought him up to the studio door. “What is the matter?” he asked, taking the boy from Clytie's grasp into his own. “The matter? Go inside. I must call Winnie. Winnie!” She opened the sitting-room door. Winifred ran out, holding her gloves, which she had just taken off, in her hand. “That boy--that little devil!” cried Clytie, and they both ran into the studio. Kent had just entered, and was standing before the mutilated picture holding the boy, who in Kent's hands was struggling violently. Winifred looked at it for a moment blankly, scarcely understanding. Then the sickening truth rose to her brain, and she leaned, very white, against the wall, looking at the others. “For God's sake take the little brute out and kill him, Mr. Kent!” Clytie broke out fiercely. “Murder him! break every bone in his body! To have done such a thing as that! It is not human.” “I'll give him a thundering hiding,” said Kent wrathfully, dragging him towards the door. But Winifred rose quickly, moved her neck, cleared her throat, and laid her hand on Kent's arm. “Don't beat him--I couldn't bear it.” “Nonsense, Winnie! sit down,” cried Clytie. “Take him away Mr. Kent, or I'll do him some mischief myself!” Kent shook the urchin till his teeth chattered and his evil little face grew red. Winifred still clung to his arm. “Don't! you shan't do it! He is no better than an animal! He did not know what he was doing. Nothing you could do to him would give me back my picture. It would be simple vengeance. Oh, send him away! Send him away!” and turning from Kent, she burst into tears and clung to Clytie, sobbing. “Miss Marchpane is right,” said Kent slowly and looking at Clytie. “Let the little brute go. Here, you, go! If ever I see you near the place, I will give you to a policeman!” Visions of the lowering blue storm-cloud, ever seeming to the children of the streets ready to burst upon their heads, loomed before the little outcast's imagination. He shivered, shrunk away from Kent's relaxed grasp, darted a keen, swift look of malignity at Clytie, and disappeared like a flash through the open door.