The conviction and frankness with which he discussed himself was remarkable, and, strangely enough, not offensive. He possessed a quality of magnetism which robbed his words of half their arrogance. Eve allowed her eyes to travel over him with calm interest. His clothes were careless and shabby, his collar too big, and his cuffs frayed; his tie seemed anywhere but in the right place. At the first glance she saw he was ill-nourished, and felt an immediate impulse to feed him up with possets and strong beef tea. Frailty excites kindly resolves from the generous-hearted. She found his features attractive, despite their irregularity, and his eyes appealed to her enormously. They were such plucky eyes, eyes that would look the world in the face unfalteringly and support with impertinent courage the wildest views which the mobile, cynical, and weak mouth might choose to utter. When anything pleased her, Eve laughed—not so much a laugh of amusement as a purr of satisfaction. The unusual appealed to her, and beyond all doubt Wynne Rendall was unusual. Hers were plucky eyes too. They rested frankly, and seemed to read the meanings of what they reflected. Eve had a broad forehead, straight brows, and clean-cut, clearly defined features. Her mouth was sweet and tolerant; to borrow from a painter’s terminology, it was a beautifully drawn mouth. One felt she would be very sure in all her dealings—analytic and purposeful. Hers was not a present-day face, but belonged rather to the period of the old Florentine Masters. For quite a while these two young people surveyed each other with calm appreciation, and presently Wynne broke the silence. “You are a new type to me,” he said—“a perplexing type. I’ve seen you on canvas, but never in the flesh. Something of Leonardo’s Lucretia! We might see more of each other, I think.” “Yes,” she said. He was about to speak again when the leading man came through a door in the canvas scene and moved toward them. In an instant Wynne pulled down the corners of his mouth pathetically. “Oh dear! I must go.” “Why? Your scene is a long way ahead.” “I know, but here’s K. G. If I stayed he might think I wanted to talk to him—and I don’t.” Eve understood the feeling very well. Those whose future is all to make are wary and resentful of patronage, and often needlessly shun the society of others more successful than themselves. None is more jealous of his pride than the climber. She allowed Wynne to depart unhindered, and presently the eminent K. G. came near enough to condescend a “Good morning.” “Been talking to young Rendall?” he queried. She nodded. “A queer boy—quite a clever actor—quite! A good sense of character!” “Very.” “Know him well?” “About five minutes.” “Oh, yes—yes. Sadly opinionated! Notice it?” “He has opinions, certainly.” “H’m! Never get on—people with too many views. He won’t learn—clever enough in himself, but won’t learn from others.” “I rather thought he had learnt a good deal from others.”