“You are too modest, Mr. Winter. I can’t call myself an artist, certainly, but I appreciate good work when I see it.” “I might have done something, but it’s my fate to design cheap houses instead of painting great pictures, Miss Powell. I attended the Art School here and I thought of going to Europe afterwards, but I married and--well, here I am.” His listener’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “The beauty of a Corot, or an Inness,” he continued, “cannot fail to thrill one, even if he is bound down to humdrum tasks. I have always held that it is the artist’s business to create beauty--simply and purely. There’s little enough of it in common life.” “That’s just how I feel, Mr. Winter.” “I don’t approve of the didactic spirit of some of the modern schools,” he ended. “For me art must be purely idealistic.” John met Miss Powell’s gaze earnestly. Lucy, who was talking with Mr. Mathews quite near, overheard snatches of this conversation, and from time to time her glance sought John and his companion. Miss Powell noticed her preoccupation. “We’re talking about art, Mrs. Winter,” she volunteered at length. “Don’t you adore it?” “I’m afraid I’m deficient in the finer feelings, Miss Powell,” answered Lucy somewhat waspishly, and turned again to Mr. Mathews. Miss Powell looked at John and lifted her brows. “I understand and sympathize with your appreciation of sentiment and beauty, Mr. Winter,” she resumed in her low, rich voice. “Thank you for telling me of it.” “We must talk again some time, Miss Powell,” declared John with feeling. “It was so good of you to come this evening. We must get better acquainted.” “Thank you. I think so, too,” she agreed with her most brilliant smile. When the little party broke up there were murmurs of pleasure from the guests. “I’ve had the best time. I’m coming out again right away,” declared Miss Stimpson, who had been talking with John all the latter part of the evening. “Do,” he smiled. “We’ll love to have you.” “I’m so glad to see you and Mr. Winter going out some at last!” exclaimed Mrs. Morris to Lucy. “It’s a good thing to get out occasionally. You must come to us some evening.” * * * * * The next morning at breakfast John was in good spirits. “I think it went off all right,” he remarked approvingly, “but you shouldn’t be so abrupt to people as you were to Miss Powell. You must cultivate tact.” “I think Miss Powell’s nice,” decided Dimmie, spoon in air. “You’ve got good taste, Son,” commented his father, opening the morning paper. When John and Lucy came to make up the list of guests for their next dinner, Jim was excepted. “Jim Sprague acted last time like it was a condescension for him to come, so we’ll just leave him off altogether.” John frowned as he spoke. Lucy was silent. “We’ll invite Mathews, of course. He’s a fine fellow. I’m going to bring him out some evening to stay over night.”