It had been, therefore, somewhat of a shock to learn in the course of time that Darrow’s influence was being shared, if not counteracted, by that of a young lady in whose honour Dick was now giving his first professional tea. Mrs. Peyton had heard a great deal about Miss Clemence Verney, first from the usual purveyors of such information, and more recently from her son, who, probably divining that rumour had been before him, adopted his usual method of disarming his mother by taking her into his confidence. But, ample as her information was, it remained perplexing and contradictory, and even her own few meetings with the girl had not helped her to a definite opinion. Miss Verney, in conduct and ideas, was patently of the “new school”: a young woman of feverish activities and broad-cast judgments, whose very versatility made her hard to define. Mrs. Peyton was shrewd enough to allow for the accidents of environment; what she wished to get at was the residuum of character beneath Miss Verney’s shifting surface. “It looks charmingly,” Mrs. Peyton repeated, giving a loosening touch to the chrysanthemums in a tall vase on her son’s desk. Dick laughed, and glanced at his watch. “They won’t be here for another quarter of an hour. I think I’ll tell Gill to clean out the work-room before they come.” “Are we to see the drawings for the competition?” his mother asked. He shook his head smilingly. “Can’t--I’ve asked one or two of the Beaux Arts fellows, you know; and besides, old Darrow’s actually coming.” “Impossible!” Mrs. Peyton exclaimed. “He swore he would last night.” Dick laughed again, with a tinge of self-satisfaction. “I’ve an idea he wants to see Miss Verney.” “Ah,” his mother murmured. There was a pause before she added: “Has Darrow really gone in for this competition?” “Rather! I should say so! He’s simply working himself to the bone.” Mrs. Peyton sat revolving her muff on a meditative hand; at length she said: “I’m not sure I think it quite nice of him.” Her son halted before her with an incredulous stare. “_Mother_!” he exclaimed. The rebuke sent a blush to her forehead. “Well--considering your friendship--and everything.” “Everything? What do you mean by everything? The fact that he had more ability than I have and is therefore more likely to succeed? The fact that he needs the money and the success a deuced sight more than any of us? Is that the reason you think he oughtn’t to have entered? Mother! I never heard you say an ungenerous thing before.” The blush deepened to crimson, and she rose with a nervous laugh. “It _was_ ungenerous,” she conceded. “I suppose I’m jealous for you. I hate these competitions!” Her son smiled reassuringly. “You needn’t. I’m not afraid: I think I shall pull it off this time. In fact, Paul’s the only man I’m afraid of--I’m always afraid of Paul--but the mere fact that he’s in the thing is a tremendous stimulus.”