Enid did not belong to the “elect,” for she was neither smart nor brilliant, but there was something so sweet and _spirituelle_ about her, that Celia fell in love with her at their first introduction. Whenever the hours of their lessons tallied, the two girls went to and from the Academy together; and although neither of them was inclined to be communicative, they were in possession of each other’s family history before they had been acquainted a week. Enid was two years older than Celia, and the second daughter out of a family of eight. Her father was a solicitor, and lived near Brighton; and her eldest brother Ralph was curate at a poverty-stricken church in the East End of London. Mrs. Brooke, with whom she was staying, was her mother’s sister. Enid took Celia home with her one day to be introduced to her aunt and cousins, and, in due course, Celia received a formal invitation to Mrs. Brooke’s “At Home” on the first Wednesday in the month. Celia wanted to take one of the girls with her when the day came round, but Maud and Di were otherwise engaged, and Lottie declined with thanks. “I am not fond of the Brookes,” she said in explanation. “They are very cordial one day and snub us the next, and I don’t like people of that description. Besides, their ‘At Homes’ are so dreadfully stiff. I went once with Ma just after Adeline’s wedding. There were several visitors there, and nearly all the chairs were occupied, but Harold managed to find one for Ma. It was a stupid little spindle-legged thing--I believe the wicked boy chose it on purpose,--and directly Ma sat down, it went bang; you know Ma’s weight. Fortunately, she didn’t hurt herself; but her bodice was tight, and split at the seams, and her bonnet went all awry. She looked just as if she had been having a fight; and we both vowed that we would never go there again.” So Celia went alone, and, although she was not of Mrs. Friedberg’s dimensions, she avoided the spindle-legged chairs and sat on the sofa, next to Enid Wilton, holding a diminutive cup of tea in one hand, and a minute piece of cake in the other. The Brookes were freezingly polite at first, but unbent just a little when, in the course of conversation, they discovered that Celia was related to Mr. Herbert Karne, R.A., whose picture, “The Dawn of Love,” they had seen at the New Gallery last year. The younger Miss Brooke was quite enthusiastic about it, for she liked knowing celebrated people or their relatives. She herself possessed some little ability for painting, and showed Celia some plaques on which she had painted some impossible birds on the wing. “I can really do better work than that,” she hastened to explain, as Celia did not appear to be overcome with admiration, “only the worst of it is that I feel most inspired in the middle of the night, when I am in bed, and mother does not like me to get up and paint then. By the time morning comes, I haven’t a single idea left.”