“But it’s a nice place _now_, don’t you think?” said Laura. Mrs. Cloud drank some coffee hurriedly. “And I never dreamed the shops would be so good. Ripping hats!” Laura’s candid eyes assured Oliver how pleased she was to join with him in praising Florence. But Justin protested: he felt that Laura was being unusual. He had never seen her in such mood before, and he didn’t like it. “Laura, you’ve not been in once since we came!” “Oh, but I’ve wanted to.” She answered him with the smile and the look that was his due: and then, “There’s a hat in that street where we got the cabinet—with thistles on it—a dream——” The change of tone as she spoke to him was too subtle for Justin’s ear; but Oliver looked across at her with sudden curiosity. “Why—why——” he began. “Florence even provides for donkeys, doesn’t she, Mr. Seton?” Laura nodded to him with the ingenuous air that he was beginning to suspect. But Justin interrupted. “I think,” he meditated paternally, “it’s rather rot for you to go mistering Oliver. He knew you when you were a kid—isn’t it, Mother?” He turned to Mrs. Cloud and so missed Laura’s frown. But Oliver was quicker. “I say, Justin!” he exclaimed, “she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t like me. Quick! Look at her! Did you ever see anything so hostile?” Justin turned to the inspection. And Laura, naturally, grew scarlet. She was furious. It was so perfectly true.... She couldn’t bear the man.... A type she detested.... A caricature of herself.... But if she didn’t like him, it was no business of his to find it out.... It was cheek to challenge her in that way ... to make her look a fool.... She wouldn’t stand it.... Here Oliver, watching her delightedly, fanned the flame. “There—the colour—d’you see? Now isn’t that interesting? Because everybody likes me, don’t they, Justin? don’t they, Mrs. Cloud? And now, I remember, you sniffed at my stuff this morning. I saw you in the glass. Now why, Miss Valentine, now why?” “Oh, what nonsense!” That, of course, is what she should have said. That, she knew perfectly well, is what she should have said. But the politenesses had gone from her. She answered like the furious child she was. “You pose,” said Miss Valentine. “I swear I don’t!” Oliver sat up. “I say, Laura!” Justin warned her. “He does, Justin. I watched him before you came. Oh, you know you do.” She faced Oliver accusingly. “You were varnishing: you didn’t want all that gamboge. Now, did you?” Suddenly Oliver, who was sweet-tempered, began to laugh guiltily. “I believe she’s right! Justin—I believe she’s right!” “Yes—and knocking over your easel to look excited, and—” she thought she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb—“and shaking hands four times running and saying to me that I didn’t like you—like that. When you’re a little boy it’s being _enfant terrible_ and funny, but when you’re grown-up it’s just pose.” “Now, look here—Laura!” Oliver planted his elbows squarely on the table.