"No one ever sits here but myself, and I can make as much mess as I like. It's lovely!" she explained, and forthwith turned on the electric light, and poked up the fire, for the atmosphere was distinctly chilly. It was certainly not a tidy apartment, no one could have said that for it, but it was extremely interesting from a girl's point of view. The wood-carving bench occupied the place of honour before the window; but there were evidences that the owner possessed more hobbies than one, for a piece of copper was in process of being beaten into a pattern of pomegranates and leaves, a work-table was littered with odds and ends, and on an old black tray was a weird medallion portrait of a gentleman, manufactured out of plasticine, a lump of which lay by its side. Young Mrs Vanburgh held out the tray towards Betty with a dramatic gesture. "That's my husband! Let me introduce you--Mr Gervase Vanburgh--Miss Trevor! Would you believe, to look at him there, that he is quite the handsomest man you ever beheld?" Betty looked at the grey profile, and sniggered helplessly. "I'm afraid I never should!" "No, it's horrid! I'm just beginning modelling, and it's not a success. I suppose it's because I can't draw well enough. What _is wrong_, do you think?" "Everything!" Betty felt inclined to say, but politely compromised by pointing out the most flagrant offences. "The ear is on a level with the mouth. The eye is perched upon a mound, instead of being in a hollow; he has no nostril, and oh! Water on the brain! He must have, with all that bump in front!" "Goodness! What a critic! You might be one of my very own sisters!" cried Mrs Vanburgh, laughing. She looked at the profile scrutinisingly. "There's one comfort--it can soon be altered. There! I'll take a bit off his head. It's the neatest shape in the world really. I don't think I am born to be a sculptor. For one thing, I should never have the patience to clean my nails. This plasticine gets into all the nooks and crannies, and simply _won't_ come out!" Betty had no sympathy to spare for nails. She was too much occupied in considering another problem. Mrs Vanburgh looked almost as young as herself, and was far more spontaneous and lively in manner; it seemed impossible to imagine her the mistress of this stately house, and the wife of the handsomest man in the world! There was all the natural awe of the unmarried for the married girl in her voice as she said-- "It is so strange to hear you talk of your husband. You don't look a bit married. Doesn't it feel very--queer?" Mrs Vanburgh laughed happily.