Philip had possessed himself of Madge's left hand, the hand that he never ceased to wonder at. It was always cool, never hot, never cold, and the skin of it was like a peach. The fingers were long and tapered to almond-shaped nails, and for all its slimness and delicacy it was yet a strong hand. And mechanically she returned the touch of his, which half unconsciously lingered at the base of the fourth finger as if showing the place where so soon the plain circlet of gold would be. "Ah! it is always a pity if anybody thinks one a brute," he said. "It often must happen, but I think one should try to make such occasions rare, so long as one does not have to sacrifice principle to them. I mean, if anyone thinks one a brute, and one can convince him of the contrary, it is usually worth while." For a moment it flashed through Madge's brain what was coming. Considering what her mind was full of, it was not surprising. And it came. "I want to ask a favour of you, dear," he said. "I call it a favour because it is a real favour--it implies your doing something that I know you don't want to do. It also will make somebody cease to think you a brute, and instead of sacrificing a principle in its performance--you will satisfy one, and that a very good one, the principle of fairness." Madge had left the sofa where they were sitting together during this, and simply in order to be doing something instead of inertly listening, poured herself out another cup of tea. So her back was turned to Philip when she replied: "You state it as if I couldn't help saying 'Yes,'" she said, her voice trembling a little. "What is it, Philip?" "Merely this, that you give Evelyn another sitting," he said. "I had no idea how strongly and keenly he felt about it till this afternoon. Shall I tell you about it?" "Yes, do." "Well won't you come and sit here again?" She did not dare, for she felt too uncertain of herself, and as she poured the milk into her tea, her hand was no longer master of itself, and the saucer was flooded. "Ah! what a mess," she cried. "Go on, Philip." "He feels that you are treating him shabbily," he said. "Mind, he never said that; he never would. But it was clear to me. He believes that his portrait of you is the best piece of work he is ever likely to do, and though I may disagree with him, that says nothing against his right to his opinion, which is probably correct. Well, he wants one more sitting----" "Did he say that this afternoon?"