By whatever fascination moved, she talked freely enough now—of her school; of riding and motoring—she seemed to love going very fast; about Newmarket—which was 'perfect'; and theatres—plays of the type that Johnny Dromore might be expected to approve; these together with 'Hamlet' and 'King Lear' were all she had seen. Never was a girl so untouched by thought, or Art—yet not stupid, having, seemingly, a certain natural good taste; only, nothing, evidently, had come her way. How could it—'Johnny Dromore duce, et auspice Johnny Dromore!' She had been taken, indeed, to the National Gallery while at school. And Lennan had a vision of eight or ten young maidens trailing round at the skirts of one old maiden, admiring Landseer's dogs, giggling faintly at Botticelli's angels, gaping, rustling, chattering like young birds in a shrubbery. But with all her surroundings, this child of Johnny Dromoredom was as yet more innocent than cultured girls of the same age. If those grey, mesmeric eyes of hers followed him about, they did so frankly, unconsciously. There was no minx in her, so far. An hour went by, and Dromore did not come. And the loneliness of this young creature in her incongruous abode began telling on Lennan's equanimity. What did she do in the evenings? “Sometimes I go to the theatre with Dad, generally I stay at home.” “And then?” “Oh! I just read, or talk French.” “What? To yourself?” “Yes, or to Oliver sometimes, when he comes in.” So Oliver came in! “How long have you known Oliver?” “Oh! ever since I was a child.” He wanted to say: And how long is that? But managed to refrain, and got up to go instead. She caught his sleeve and said: “You're not to go!” Saying that she looked as a dog will, going to bite in fun, her upper lip shortened above her small white teeth set fast on her lower lip, and her chin thrust a little forward. A glimpse of a wilful spirit! But as soon as he had smiled, and murmured: “Ah! but I must, you see!” she at once regained her manners, only saying rather mournfully: “You don't call me by my name. Don't you like it?” “Nell?” “Yes. It's really Eleanor, of course. DON'T you like it?” If he had detested the name, he could only have answered: “Very much.” “I'm awfully glad! Good-bye.” When he got out into the street, he felt terribly like a man who, instead of having had his sleeve touched, has had his heart plucked at. And that warm, bewildered feeling lasted him all the way home.