This was reassuring. Miss Haviland's manner was candour itself; and depend upon it, if there had been any self-consciousness about her, Audrey would have found it out at once. She dropped the subject, and looked about her for another. The suggestions of the place were obvious. "I see you are a great artist. My cousin didn't prepare me for that." Miss Haviland laughed. "Vincent is probably unaware of the interesting fact, like the rest of the world." "That picture is very beautiful; may I look at it?" said Audrey, going up to the easel. "Certainly. It's hardly finished yet, and I don't think it will be particularly beautiful when it is. I can't choose my subjects." "It looks--interesting," murmured Audrey, fatuously. (What _was_ the subject, after all?) "Have you done many others?" "Yes, a good many." "May I----?" she hesitated, wondering whether her request might not be a social solecism, like asking a professional to play. "If you care about pictures, I will show you some of my brother's some day. His are better than mine--more original, at least." "Your brother? Oh, of course. Vincent told me you had a brother, a baby brother. Surely----" Miss Haviland laughed again. "How like Vincent! He is unconscious of the flight of time. I suppose he told you I was about ten years old. But you must really see the baby; he will be delighted with your description of him." She called through the skylight, and Audrey remembered the gentleman who was "no gentleman," and who must have been responsible for half the laughter she had overheard. "You see," Miss Haviland explained, "we've only one room for everything; so Ted always climbs on to the leads when we hear people coming--he's bound to meet them on the stairs, if he makes a rush for the bedrooms. If any bores come, I let him stay up there; and if it's any one likely to be interesting, I call him down." "He must have great confidence in your judgment." "He has. Here he comes." Audrey looked up in time to see the baby lowering himself through the skylight. With his spine curved well back, his legs hanging within the room, and his head and the upper part of his body laid flat on the leads outside it, he balanced himself for a second of time. It was a most undignified position; but he triumphed over it, as, with one supple undulation, he shot himself on to the floor, saving his forehead from the window by a hair's-breath.