In one of the smartest squares in the West-end of London resided a certain dainty damsel with a stern, unreasonable dragon of a father. Maudie Meridith, in her seventeen-year-old wisdom, fully agreed with Pallister that they were both of ample age to be at least engaged--even if not actually married. Stern, prosaic dragon of a father begged to differ. After many prayers, many pleadings, he had given vent to this appalling ultimatum-- "When you can show me your name in the catalogue of any of the big exhibitions, my boy, I'll consent to your engagement with this baby. Otherwise, you will have to wait until she is actually twenty years of age. Cruelty to children, isn't it? Be off with you both, and don't bother me again." The youthful suitor had confided this unheard-of tyranny to Geoff, for whom he cherished an affectionate admiration. The response had been to the effect that if Pallister was wise he would not shoot himself or even sink into a decline, but would see about endeavouring to fulfil the conditions that would shorten these three years of probation. "If, as you say, you are unalterably convinced that Art schools keep you back, you had better go and work every day in my studio," Geoff had written. "It is a big one, as you know, and only Jack Hardy is there at present. You would find him an enormous help to you--but don't bother him, there's a good lad. If you want to try your hand at a picture right away, there is ample room on the throne for two models; if you think a few months hard preliminary work would be of most value, you can make studies from Jack's model. Good luck to you in any case." This kind offer had been accepted, and every morning Pallister punctually appeared and painted away steadily for a few hours. He did not know the meaning of real hard work, but under the influence of Jack's friendly aid and advice he certainly improved week by week. Evarne found a certain satisfaction in being again in Geoff's own home, despite his absence, and although his name was scarcely mentioned. On the wall was a painting of him done by Jack a year or so previously. It was a marvellously good likeness, although the background and accessories were unfinished. Portrait-painting was Jack's _forte_, would he but have believed it. "I'm going to smuggle away that picture of Mr. Danvers when you are not looking," declared Evarne; whereupon Jack, when he paid her at the conclusion of her sittings, smilingly handed her also the canvas in question already tied up to be taken away. She hung it in her room, with a little bracket on either side, whereon stood vases which she kept filled with fresh flowers. Night and morning she pressed a gentle kiss upon the painted lips. "Come back soon, Geoff--come back soon," she once whispered impulsively. And perhaps her wish was wafted away over land and sea to the City in the Waters, for within four months of leaving England Geoff had endured quite sufficient of this test of absence. Thus he wrote: