“He’s a very clever fellow, Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie, going on with his painting. “But you’ll turn his head completely. To be so much interested--not in what he has said, or is saying, or even is going to say, but just in what you think he possibly may say--it’s amazing! Griggs, you’re not half enough nattered! But then, you’re so spoilt!” “Yes--in my old age, people are spoiling me.” Griggs smiled rather sourly. “I can’t read souls, Miss Lauderdale,” he continued. “But if I could, I should rather read yours than most books. It has something to say.” “It’s impossible to be more vague, I’m sure,” observed Crowdie. “It’s impossible to be more flattering,” said Katharine, quietly. “Thank you, Mr. Griggs.” She was beginning to be tired of Crowdie’s observations upon what Griggs said--possibly because she was beginning to like Griggs himself more than she had expected. “I didn’t mean to be either vague or flattering. It’s servile to be the one and weak to be the other. I said what I thought. Do you call it flattery to paint a beautiful portrait of Miss Lauderdale?” “Not unless I make it more beautiful than she is,” answered the painter. “You can’t.” “That’s decisive, at all events,” laughed Crowdie. “Not but that I agree with you, entirely.” “Oh, I don’t mean it as you do,” answered Griggs. “That would be flattery--exactly what I don’t mean. Miss Lauderdale is perfectly well aware that you’re a great portrait painter and that she is not altogether the most beautiful young lady living at the present moment. You mean flesh and blood and eyes and hair. I don’t. I mean all that flesh and blood and eyes and hair don’t mean, and never can mean.” “Soul,” suggested Crowdie. “I was talking about that to Miss Lauderdale the last time she sat for me--that was on Wednesday, wasn’t it--the day before yesterday? It seems like last year, for some reason or other. Yes, I know what you mean. You needn’t get into such a state of frenzied excitement.” “I appeal to you, Mrs. Crowdie--was I talking excitedly?” “A little,” answered Hester, who was incapable of disagreeing with her husband. “Oh--well--I daresay,” said Griggs. “It hasn’t been my weakness in life to get excited, though.” He laughed. “Walter always makes you talk, Mr. Griggs,” answered Mrs. Crowdie. “A great deal too much. I think I shall be rude, and not stay to luncheon, after all.” “Nonsense!” exclaimed Crowdie. “Don’t go in for being young and eccentric--the ‘man of genius’ style, who runs in and out like a hen in a thunder-storm, and is in everybody’s way when he’s not wanted and can’t be found when people want him. You’ve outgrown that sort of absurdity long ago.”