"Ha!" said the old lady, staring. "Of course I do. But what made you think so?" "It was the only one of the Julien studies you could mean," returned Jean, promptly. "He did not draw like this till the year he exhibited." The explosive "Ha!" was repeated, and the girl felt herself thoroughly assayed by the shrewd old eyes. "You are a close student of Mr. Atwood, my dear," came dryly. "Perhaps you are a critic of contemporary art?" Jean reddened, but, surprising the twinkle behind the sarcasm, laughed. "Is it probable?" she asked. "It's possible. Half the celebrities I meet seem young enough to be my grandchildren. But you are telling me nothing. Are you one of Julie Van Ostade's discoveries? She collects geniuses, you know. What is your name?" Jean told her. "It means nothing, you see," she smiled. "I am only a student." "Of painting?" "No; sculpture." "Are you! But you look original. Where are you at work? I hope you don't mind my questions? I'm an inquisitive old person." Jean named her school and mentioned Richter. "But I have accomplished nothing yet," she added. "Ha!" said the old lady. "Then it's time you did. I shall ask Richter about it. If I forget your name, I'll describe your eyes. There is something singularly familiar about your eyes." The men and Mrs. Van Ostade made a simultaneous entrance, and the latter at once bore down on Jean's catechist. "Peroni will sing," she announced with a note of triumph. "He volunteered as a mark of respect to you." "Really!" The octogenarian's smile was extraordinarily expressive. "Yet they call him mercenary." The opening bar of an accompaniment issued from the music-room, and Jean joined the drift toward the piano. She wondered who this sprightly personage might be for whom the spoiled tenor volunteered, and then, in the magic of his voice, forgot to wonder. In the babel following the hush, MacGregor leaned over her chair. "So the irrepressible conflict is on?" he greeted her. Jean's welcome was whole-hearted. "Craig has told you?" she said softly. "Yesterday. I wish you both all the usual things. I ought to have seen it from the first, I suppose, but as a matter of fact I did not. Certainly I never figured you in the lists when I spoke of the battle royal. Any war news?" "We have exchanged calls without meeting." "Preliminary skirmishes." "Next came the dinner-invitation. Not exactly a war measure, should you say?" "Knowing Julie, yes. I should call it the first engagement." Jean perceived his military metaphor was but a thin disguise for a serious opinion. "And the victor?" she said. "Apparently yourself." "I don't feel especially victorious," she said, a little wistfully. "What makes you think the battle is on? Oh, but we must not talk this way here," she immediately added. "We've eaten her salt."