When the last note died out in the stillness Rita emphasised the finish with the ferrule of her parasol and rose with decision: "I require several new frocks," she said, "and how am I to acquire them unless I pose for somebody? Good-bye, Mr. Neville--bye-bye! Sam--good-bye, Mr. Annan--good-bye, dear,"--to Valerie--"if you've nothing better on hand drop in this evening. I've a duck of a new hat." The girl nodded, and, as Rita Tevis walked out, turning up her nose at Ogilvy who opened the door for her, Valerie glanced up over her shoulder at Neville: "I don't believe you are going to need me to-day after all, are you?" she asked. "No," he said, absently. "I've a lot of things to do. You needn't stay, Miss West." "Now will you be good!" said Annan, smiling at her with his humourous, bantering air. And to his surprise and discomfiture he saw the least trace of annoyance in her dark eyes. "Come up to the studio and have a julep," he said with hasty cordiality. "And suppose we dine together at Arrowhead--if you've nothing else on hand--" She shook her head--the movement was scarcely perceptible. The smile had returned to her lips. "Won't you, Miss West?" "Isn't it like you to ask me when you heard Rita's invitation? You're a fraud, Mr. Annan." "Are you going to sit in that boarding-house parlour and examine Rita's new bonnet all this glorious evening?" She laughed: "Is there any man on earth who can prophesy what any woman on earth is likely to do? If _you_ can, please begin." Ogilvy, hands clasped behind him, balancing alternately on heels and toes, stood regarding Neville's work. Annan looked up, too, watching Neville where he stood on the scaffolding, busy as always, with the only recreation he cared anything for--work. "I wish to Heaven I were infected with the bacillus of industry," broke out Ogilvy. "I never come into this place but I see Kelly busily doing something." "You're an inhuman sort of brute, Kelly!" added Annan. "What do you work that way for--money? If I had my way I'd spend three quarters of my time shooting and fishing and one quarter painting--and I'm as devotedly stuck on art as any healthy man ought to be." "Art's a bum mistress if she makes you hustle like that!" commented Ogilvy. "Shake her, Kelly. She's a wampire mit a sarpint's tongue!" "The worst of Kelly is that he'd _rather_ paint," said Annan, hopelessly. "It's sufficient to sicken the proverbial cat." "Get a machine and take us all out to Woodmanston?" suggested Ogilvy. "It's a bee--u--tiful day, dearie!" "Get out of here!" retorted Neville, painting composedly. "Your industry saddens us," insisted Annan. "It's only in mediocrity that you encounter industry. Genius frivols; talent takes numerous vacations on itself--" "And at its own expense," added Valerie, demurely. "I knew a man who couldn't finish his 'Spring Academy' in time: and he had all winter to finish it. But he didn't. Did you ever hear about that man, Sam?"