“That's your sister's picture, 'The Shadow,' they're looking at, isn't it?” asked Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. “I remember seeing it on Christmas Day, and the little model who was sitting for it--an attractive type! Your brother-in-law told me how interested you all were in her. Quite a romantic story, wasn't it, about her fainting from want of food when she first came to sit?” Cecilia murmured something. Her hands were moving nervously; she looked ill at ease. These signs passed unperceived by Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, whose eyes were busy. “In the F.H.M.P., of course, I see a lot of young girls placed in delicate positions, just on the borders, don't you know? You should really join the F.H.M.P., Mrs. Dallison. It's a first-rate thing--most absorbing work.” The doubting deepened in Cecilia's eyes. “Oh, it must be!” she said. “I've so little time.” Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace went on at once. “Don't you think that we live in the most interesting days? There are such a lot of movements going on. It's quite exciting. We all feel that we can't shut our eyes any longer to social questions. I mean the condition of the people alone is enough to give one nightmare!” “Yes, yes,” said Cecilia; “it is dreadful, of course. “Politicians and officials are so hopeless, one can't look for anything from them.” Cecilia drew herself up. “Oh, do you think so?” she said. “I was just talking to Mr. Balladyce. He says that Art and Literature must be put on a new basis altogether.” “Yes,” said Cecilia; “really? Is he that funny little man?” “I think he's so monstrously clever.” Cecilia answered quickly: “I know--I know. Of course, something must be done.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace absently, “I think we all feel that. Oh, do tell me! I've been talking to such a delightful person--just the type you see when you go into the City--thousands of them, all in such good black coats. It's so unusual to really meet one nowadays; and they're so refreshing, they have such nice simple views. There he is, standing just behind your sister.” Cecilia by a nervous gesture indicated that she recognized the personality alluded to. “Oh, yes,” she said; “Mr. Purcey. I don't know why he comes to see us.” “I think he's so delicious!” said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace dreamily. Her little dark eyes, like bees, had flown to sip honey from the flower in question--a man of broad build and medium height, dressed. with accuracy, who seemed just a little out of his proper bed. His mustachioed mouth wore a set smile; his cheerful face was rather red, with a forehead of no extravagant height or breadth, and a conspicuous jaw; his hair was thick and light in colour, and his eyes were small, grey, and shrewd. He was looking at a picture. “He's so delightfully unconscious,” murmured Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. “He didn't even seem to know that there was a problem of the lower classes.” “Did he tell you that he had a picture?” asked Cecilia gloomily.