If Hunt felt that there was anything cynically unpaternal in this father planning for his daughter a career of crime, he gave no sign of it. His attention was just then all on Maggie. He saw her eyes grow yet more bright at these last sentences of her father: bright with the vision of approaching adventure. “The idea suits you, Maggie?” he asked. “Sure. It'll be great--for Larry is a wonder!” Barney Palmer suddenly rose, his face twisted with anger. “I'm all fed up on this Larry, Larry, Larry! Come on, Jimmie. Let's get uptown.” Wise Old Jimmie saw that Barney was near an outburst. “All right, Barney, all right,” he said promptly. “Not much use waiting any longer, anyhow. If Larry comes, we'll fix it with the Duchess to meet him tomorrow.” “Then so-long, Maggie,” Barney flung at her, and that swagger ex-jockey, gambler, and clever manipulator of the confidence of people with money, slashed aside the shabby burlap curtains with his wisp of a bamboo walking-stick, and strode out of the room. “Good-night, daughter,” and Old Jimmie crossed and kissed her. She kissed him back--a perfunctory kiss. Maggie had never paused to think the matter out, but for some reason she felt little real affection for her father, though of course she admired his astuteness. Perhaps her unconscious lack of love was due in part to the fact that she had never lived with him. Ever since she remembered he had boarded her out, here and there, as he was now boarding her at the Duchess's--and had only come to visit her at intervals, sometimes intervals that stretched into months. “Barney is rather sweet on you,” remarked Hunt after the two were gone. “I know he is,” conceded Maggie in a matter-of-fact way. “And he seems jealous of Larry--both regarding you, and regarding the bunch.” “He thinks he can run the bunch just as well as Larry. Barney's clever all right, and has plenty of nerve--but he's not in Larry's class. Not by a million miles!” Hunt perceived that this daring, world-defying, embryonically beautiful model of his had idealized the homecoming nephew of the Duchess into her especial hero. Hunt said no more, but painted rapidly. Night had fallen outside, and long since he had switched on the electric lights. He seemed not at all finicky in this matter of light; he had no supposedly indispensable north light, and midday or midnight were almost equally apt to find him slashing with brush or scratching with crayon. Presently the Duchess entered. No word was spoken. The Duchess, noteworthy for her mastery of silence, sank into a chair, a bent and shrunken image, nothing seemingly alive about her but her faintly gleaming, deep-set eyes. Several minutes passed, then Hunt lifted the canvas from the easel and stood it against the wall. “That's all for to-day, Maggie,” he announced, pushing the easel to one side. “Duchess, you and this wild young thing spread the banquet-table while I wash up.”