Densham looked steadily away into the fire, wondering how to broach the subject which had so suddenly taken the foremost place in his thoughts. He had not come to make even the idlest of love this afternoon. The time when he had been content to do so seemed very far away just now. Somehow this dainty little woman with her Watteau-like grace and delicate mannerisms had, for the present, at any rate, lost all her attractiveness for him, and he was able to meet the flash of her bright eyes and feel the touch of her soft fingers without any corresponding thrill. "You are very good to me," he said, thoughtfully. "May I have some more tea?" Now Densham was no strategist. He had come to ask a question, and he was dying to ask it. He knew very well that it would not do to hurry matters--that he must put it as casually as possible towards the close of his visit. But at the same time, the period of probation, during which he should have been more than usually entertaining, was scarcely a success, and his manner was restless and constrained. Every now and then there were long and unusual pauses, and he continuously and with obvious effort kept bringing back the conversation to the reception last night, in the hope that some remark from her might make the way easier for him. But nothing of the sort happened. The reception had not interested her in the slightest, and she had nothing to say about it, and his pre-occupation at last became manifest. She looked at him curiously after one of those awkward pauses to which she was quite unaccustomed, and his thoughts were evidently far away. As a matter of fact, he was at that moment actually framing the question which he had come to ask. "My dear Francis," she said, quietly, "why don't you tell me what is the matter with you? You are not amusing. You have something on your mind. Is it anything you wish to ask of me?" "Yes," he said, boldly, "I have come to ask you a favour." She smiled at him encouragingly. "Well, do ask it," she said, "and get rid of your woebegone face. You ought to know that if it is anything within my power I shall not hesitate." "I want," he said, "to paint your portrait for next year's Academy." This was a master stroke. To have Densham paint her picture was just at that moment the height of Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell's ambition. A flush of pleasure came into her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright. "Do you really mean it?" she exclaimed, leaning over towards him. "Are you sure?" "Of course I mean it," he answered. "If only I can do you justice, I think it ought to be the portrait of the year. I have been studying you for a long time in an indefinite sort of way, and I think that I have some good ideas."