"I didn't," he said simply. "That shows how you must have been thinking!" said she. "Was he a good master?" "Yes, very good," said Priam Farll with conviction. "I see you're not in mourning." "No. That is----" "I don't hold with mourning myself," she proceeded. "They say it's to show respect. But it seems to me that if you can't show your respect without a pair of black gloves that the dye's always coming off... I don't know what you think, but I never did hold with mourning. It's grumbling against Providence, too! Not but what I think there's a good deal too much talk about Providence. I don't know what you think, but----" "I quite agree with you," he said, with a warm generous smile which sometimes rushed up and transformed his face before he was aware of the occurrence. And she smiled also, gazing at him half confidentially. She was a little woman, stoutish--indeed, stout; puffy red cheeks; a too remarkable white cotton blouse; and a crimson skirt that hung unevenly; grey cotton gloves; a green sunshade; on the top of all this the black hat with red roses. The photograph in Leek's pocket-book must have been taken in the past. She looked quite forty-five, whereas the photograph indicated thirty-nine and a fraction. He gazed down at her protectively, with a good-natured appreciative condescension. "I suppose you'll have to be going back again soon, to arrange things like," she said. It was always she who kept the conversation afloat. "No," he said. "I've finished there. They've dismissed me." "Who have?" "The relatives." "Why?" He shook his head. "I hope you made them pay you your month," said she firmly. He was glad to be able to give a satisfactory answer. After a pause she resumed bravely: "So Mr. Farll was one of these artists? At least so I see according to the paper." He nodded. "It's a very funny business," she said. "But I suppose there's some of them make quite a nice income out of it. _You_ ought to know about that, being in it, as it were." Never in his life had he conversed on such terms with such a person as Mrs. Alice Challice. She was in every way a novelty for him--in clothes, manners, accent, deportment, outlook on the world and on paint. He had heard and read of such beings as Mrs. Alice Challice, and now he was in direct contact with one of them. The whole affair struck him as excessively odd, as a mad escapade on his part. Wisdom in him deemed it ridiculous to prolong the encounter, but shy folly could not break loose. Moreover she possessed the charm of her novelty; and there was that in her which challenged the male in him. "Well," she said, "I suppose we can't stand here for ever!" The crowd had frittered itself away, and an attendant was closing and locking the doors of St. George's Hall. He coughed. "It's a pity it's Saturday and all the shops closed. But anyhow suppose we walk along Oxford Street all the same? Shall we?" This from her. "By all means."