Edwin Marmaduke seemed somehow to look younger than before. He had lost a little of his expression of languor and disdain; and Grace was the very personification of radiant girlhood. In spite of her knowledge of her own good looks and good clothes, she was charmingly deferential to these people, whom she considered intellectuals. Her naively respectful greeting to the Rev. Morris Gildell seemed for the moment to restore to that drawing-room revolutionist some strange lost dignity. Men and women alike greeted the young girl with genuine friendliness. When her gray motor-cloak had been hung over the corner of an easel, and she had been seated on one of the few real chairs the studio boasted, and served with sweet biscuits, a cup of tea, and a cigarette, then the great event of the afternoon occurred--the unveiling of Marmaduke’s portrait of her. The blinds were drawn--for the Incomprehensiblist painting is best appreciated in semidarkness. The incense-pot received some new fuel; John Potts played something “very golden” on the piano; and Edwin Marmaduke reverently drew back the gay Indian scarf that covered his masterpiece. II For a detailed description of Edwin Marmaduke’s “Soul Study in B-Minor--for G. M.,” the reader is referred to the introduction to the catalogue of the “Seven Rebels” exhibition at the Stein Galleries, or to the admirable essay “Incomprehensiblism--a Step Forward,” which appeared in that sprightly but short-lived weekly review, the _Ultimate Democracy_. This at least was obvious--that the portrait was large and mauve; this at least was generally agreed upon--that it was wonderful. The Rev. Morris Gildell defiantly, Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur cooingly, Arthura Lewis prayerfully, Grace Mallon respectfully, Edwin Marmaduke himself modestly--all said it was wonderful. And after Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur had embraced the young painter, and his other guests had clasped his hand, and they had all said “Wonderfull” many, many times, they clattered down the uncarpeted stairs to the street. All, that is, but one--Grace Mallon. She still remained in the old Italian chair, holding an empty cup and an unlighted cigarette. She looked out of the window into dusty Patchin Place, and one slender, unjeweled hand lay on the sill. It was an attractive hand although the sun had turned it a shade darker than that of Edwin Marmaduke. It seemed firm and soft at the same time. Edwin was, after all, human, and therefore he seized it; but Grace withdrew it from his grasp--not very abruptly, however. “Now, Edwin,” she said, “you must be very proper and mid-Victorian and all that sort of thing, since I’m being a reckless, forward young woman and staying here in your studio all alone with you. Now sit down there like a good boy and listen to me. Heavens! I wonder what David _would_ say if he knew I was doing this!”