"N-no. It never occurred to me. Do you mean it really, or are you laughing?" "Of course I mean it. Didn't you ever look at him?" "Why yes, often." "Well, then?" "I suppose his features are good, when one comes to think about them," said the girl, with a dubious expression in her eyes. "Yes, I suppose they are." "I wish mine were anything like as good," said Scarlett, with dispassionate candour. "You wish yours----" Miss Wilton began, and ended with an amazed and incredulous laugh which was exceedingly flattering. It was so evidently genuine. "I don't think you half believe me now," he said. "But I assure you, if you were to ask an artist he would tell you----" "An artist? Oh, I dare say an artist might say so. But I don't believe a _woman_ would say that Mr. Harding was good-looking." "How if _she_ were an artist?" "Oh, then she wouldn't count." "But why wouldn't a woman think so?" She paused to consider. "I don't know," she said, "and yet I do mean it, somehow. He may be handsome, but he doesn't seem like it. I think a woman would want him to seem as well as to be." "Do you mean that she wouldn't admire him unless he gave himself airs? That's not very complimentary to the woman, you know." Miss Wilton shook her head. "I don't mean that. He might not think about himself at all--I should like him all the better." She stood for a minute with her eyes raised to Adrian's, yet was plainly looking back at the image of Reynold Harding which she had called up for the purpose of analysis. At last, "He isn't a bit unconscious!" she exclaimed. "He is the _most_ self-conscious man I know. I believe he is _always_ thinking about himself!" "If he is," said Scarlett, "as far as I could judge I should say he didn't enjoy it much." "That's it!" she said. "He doesn't find himself attractive, and so--no more do we. _Isn't_ that it?" He smiled. "There's something in the idea as far as it goes. But it doesn't alter his features, you know." "Of course not. But we don't look at them." Adrian stood, pulling his moustache, and still smiling. He was not afraid, yet he found it rather pleasant to be told that this picturesque tutor, who had been shut up in Mitchelhurst Place with Barbara, was not the kind of man to take a woman's fancy. It was pleasant, but of course it did not mean much. Molly Wilton might be perfectly right, and yet it would not mean much. It is easy to lay down general rules about women, and very clever rules they often are. The mistake is, in applying these admirable theories to any one particular woman--she is certain to be an exception. Scarlett, while he listened to his companion, did not forget that there are always women enough to supply a formidable minority. "I say," Miss Wilton exclaimed, with a real kindling of interest in her face, "I'll just go and take off my hat, and then we might try over that duet, you know."