“Dora,” she said, “I often wonder whether it would be profane to mention in one's prayers a little gratitude for not having an artistic soul. There are lots of women like that in the world, especially in London. They pretend that they think themselves superior to men, but they know in their hearts that they are inferior to women. For they have not something that women ought to have--No, Dolly, no brown studies here; you must not dream here!” Dora, with a light laugh, came back from her mental wanderings to find herself looking at a face which caught her attention at once. It was the face of a man--brown, self-contained, with unhappy eyes and a long drooping nose. “Who is _that_ man?” she inquired at once. “Now, he is quite different from the rest. He is about the only person who is not furtively finding out how much attention he has succeeded in attracting.” “Yes, that is a man with a purpose.” “What purpose?” inquired Dora. “I don't know; I shouldn't think any one knows.” “_He_ knows,” suggested Dora. “Yes, _he_ knows.” Miss Mazerod was looking at the mechanism of her fan with a demure expression on lips shaped for happiness. A dark young man was elbowing his way through the mixed crowd towards them. “What is his name?” asked Dora, who was still looking at the man with a purpose. “General Seymour Michael.” “The Indian man?” “Yes.” There was a little pause, during which Miss Mazerod glanced in the direction of the younger man, who had been detained by a stout lady with a purple dress and a depressed daughter. “I should like to know him,” said Dora. “Nothing easier,” replied her cousin, still absorbed in the fan. “I know him quite well.” “He is looking at you now.” Miss Mazerod looked up and bowed with a little jerk, as if she felt too young to be stately; one of those bows that say “Come here.” At this moment the younger man came up and shook hands effusively with Dora, slowly with Miss Mazerod. “Jack,” said that young lady, “I have just beamed on General Michael, who is behind you. I want to introduce him to Dora.” Jack seemed to think this an excellent idea, and stepped aside with alacrity. Seymour Michael came forward with his pleasant smile. He certainly was one of the most distinguished-looking men in the room, with a brilliant ribbon across his breast, and that smart, well-brushed general effect which stamps the successful soldier. “When did you come back to England?” inquired Edith Mazerod, whose father had worked with this man in India. “I--oh! I have been home six months,” he replied, shaking hands with a subtle _empressemant_ which was more effective than words. “On leave?” “No. Laid on the shelf.” He stood upright, drawing himself up with ironical emphasis, as if to show as plainly as possible that there were many years of life and work in him yet. Edith Mazerod laughed, the careless passing laugh of inattention. “Dora,” she said, “may I introduce General Michael? My cousin.”