It was the first time she had ever appealed to her childish recollections of him in any other than a provocative or half-resentful tone. He could remember a good many tussles with her in her frail mother's interest, when she was a long-legged, insubordinate child of twelve. And when Helena first arrived at Beechmark, it had hurt him to realize how bitterly she remembered such things, how grossly she had exaggerated them. The change indicated in her present manner, soothed his tired, nervous mood. His smile answered her. "Yes, I was there with you two or three days. Do you remember the wild tulips we gathered at Settignano?" "And the wild cherries--and the pear-blossoms! Italy in the spring is _Heaven_!" she said, under her breath, as she dropped to a sitting posture on the floor while he put the drawings before her. "Well!--shall we go there next spring?" "Don't tempt me--and then back out!" "If I did," he said, laughing, "you could still go with Mrs. Friend." She made no answer. Another knock at the door. "There's Geoffrey. Come in, old boy. We've only just begun." Half an hour's exhibition followed. Both Helena and French were intelligent spectators, and their amazement at the quality and variety of the work shown them seemed half-welcome, half-embarrassing to their host. "Why don't you go on with it? Why don't you exhibit?" cried Helena. He shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't interest me now. It's a past phase." She longed to ask questions. But his manner didn't encourage it. And when the half-hour was done he looked at his watch. "Dressing-time," he said, smiling, holding it out to Helena. She rose at once. Philip was a delightful artist, but the operations of dressing were not to be trifled with. Her thanks, however, for "a lovely time!" and her pleading for a second show on the morrow, were so graceful, so sweet, that French, as he silently put the drawings back, felt his spirits drop to zero. What could have so changed the thorny, insolent girl of six weeks before--but the one thing? He stole a glance at Buntingford. Surely he must realize what was happening--and his huge responsibility--he _must_. Helena disappeared. Geoffrey volunteered to tie up a portfolio they had only half examined, while Buntingford finished a letter. While he was handling it, the portfolio slipped, and a number of drawings fell out pell-mell upon the floor. Geoffrey stooped to pick them up. A vehement exclamation startled Buntingford at his desk. "What's the matter, Geoffrey?" "Philip! _That's_ the woman I saw!--that's her face!--I could swear to it anywhere!" He pointed with excitement to the drawing of a woman's head and shoulders, which had fallen out from the very back of the portfolio, whereof the rotting straps and fastenings showed that it had not been opened for many years. Buntingford came to his side. He looked at the drawing--then at French. His face seemed suddenly to turn grey and old.