Olivia groaned in spirit over Marcus's recklessness, but she could not bear to damp his enjoyment. She unburdened her mind to Mrs. Broderick the next day. "Don't you think it would have been wiser to have put it by for a rainy day?" she said, anxiously. But Aunt Madge did not seem quite to share this opinion. "My dear," she said, shrewdly, "I think Marcus knows what he is about; it would never do for him to go to those good houses in a shabby greatcoat. A little outlay is sometimes a good investment." "Oh, yes, but I was thinking of the dress and jacket and that hat, Aunt Madge----" "Ah, well, we must forgive Marcus that extravagance! It hurt his pride to see you calling at Galvaston House in that old serge dress. He is not really improvident, Livy. You have enough in hand for present necessities, and there will be something coming in next month." "Oh, dear, yes; and do you know, Aunt Madge, they have sent for Marcus to attend the lodger at number seventeen. He is a music-teacher and very respectable, and can afford to pay his doctor, so that is swallow number three." "Then I am sure you can wear your new dress with an easy conscience," and then Olivia's last scruples vanished. Olivia looked so distinguished in her grey tweed that Marcus made her blush by telling her that she had never looked so handsome. Mr. Gaythorne gave her an odd penetrating glance when she entered the library. "I hardly knew you, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, dryly, and then his manner changed and softened. "That was her favourite colour," he said. "Olive was always a grey bird; she liked soft, subdued tints; she was a bit of a Puritan. I often told her so." "I am glad you like my new dress," returned Olivia, simply. "My husband chose it for me, he has such good taste." "You need not tell me that, Mrs. Luttrell." And again Olivia blushed like a girl at the implied compliment. Mr. Gaythorne was looking over a portfolio of water-colour paintings. Olivia had not yet seen them, and she was full of outspoken admiration, as Mr. Gaythorne placed one after another before her. "They are all the work of a young artist who died at Rome," he said. "I bought them of his widow. They are very well done; he had great promise, poor fellow. If he had lived, he would have done good work. These were merely pot-boilers, as he called them--little things he painted on the spur of the moment." "To me they are perfectly beautiful," returned Olivia. "Those two are so lovely that I could not choose between them. Please let me look at them a little longer, Mr. Gaythorne, I want to tell Aunt Madge about them." And Olivia, who was always charmingly natural in her movements, propped her chin on her hands, and looked long and earnestly at the pictures. Their beauty lay in the soft rich colouring and a certain suggestiveness in the subject.