'She's a young artist, and I lent her some books of old prints she wanted. She's not a particular friend of mine--I don't care for her much.' Bruce didn't hear the last words, for he was flying out of the door. Miss Argles was walking very slowly; he joined her. 'Pardon me,' he said, raising his hat. 'It's so very hot--am I going your way? Would you allow me to see you home?' 'Oh, you're very kind, I'm sure,' she said sadly. 'But I don't think--I live at Ravenscourt Park.' Bruce thought there was plenty of time. 'Why how very curious! That's just where I was going,' said he boldly. He put up his stick. Instead of a taxi a hansom drove up. Bruce hailed it. 'Always like to give these chaps a turn when I can,' he said. It would take longer. 'How kind-hearted you are,' murmured the girl. 'But I'd really rather not, thank you.' 'Then how shall you get back?' 'Walk to the Tube.' 'Oh no; it's far too hot. Let me drop you, as I'm going in your direction.' He gave her a rather fixed look of admiration, and smiled. She gave a slight look back and got into the cab. 'What ripping red hair,' said Bruce to himself as he followed her. * * * * * Before the end of the drive, which for him was a sort of adventure, Mavis had promised to meet Bruce when she left her Art School next Tuesday at a certain tea-shop in Bond Street. Bruce went home happy and in good spirits again. There was no earthly harm in being kind to a poor little girl like this. He might do a great deal of good. She seemed to admire him. She thought him so clever. Funny thing, there was no doubt he had the gift; women liked him, and there you are. Look at Miss Mooney at the Mitchells' the other day, why, she was ever so nice to him; went for him like one o'clock; but he gave her no encouragement. Edith was there. He wouldn't worry her, dear girl. As he came towards home he smiled again. And Edith, dear Edith--she, too, must be frightfully keen on him, when one came to think about it, to forgive him so readily about Margaret Tow--Oh, confound Miss Townsend. This girl was a picture, a sort of Rossetti, and she had had such trouble lately--terrible trouble. The man she had been devoted to for years had suddenly thrown her over, heartlessly.... What a brute he must have been! She was going to tell him all about it on Tuesday. That man must have been a fiend!... 'Holloa, Vincy! So glad you're still here. Let's have dinner, Edie.' CHAPTER XXIII At Lady Everard's