“I don't know.” “If she's really so pretty, you'd better.” “Pretty's hardly the word—but she's not ordinary.” She turned round, and looked up at him, and instinctively he felt that something difficult to answer was coming next. “Mark.” “Yes.” “I wanted to ask you: Are you really happy nowadays?” “Of course. Why not?” What else to be said? To speak of those feelings of the last few months—those feelings so ridiculous to anyone who had them not—would only disturb her horribly. And having received her answer, Sylvia turned back to the fire, resting silently against his knees.... Three days later the sheep-dogs suddenly abandoned the pose into which he had lured them with such difficulty, and made for the studio door. There in the street was Nell Dromore, mounted on a narrow little black horse with a white star, a white hoof, and devilish little goat's ears, pricked, and very close together at the tips. “Dad said I had better ride round and show you Magpie. He's not very good at standing still. Are those your dogs? What darlings!” She had slipped her knee already from the pummel, and slid down; the sheep-dogs were instantly on their hind-feet, propping themselves against her waist. Lennan held the black horse—a bizarre little beast, all fire and whipcord, with a skin like satin, liquid eyes, very straight hocks, and a thin bang-tail reaching down to them. The little creature had none of those commonplace good looks so discouraging to artists. He had forgotten its rider, till she looked up from the dogs, and said: “Do you like him? It IS nice of you to be going to do us.” When she had ridden away, looking back until she turned the corner, he tried to lure the two dogs once more to their pose. But they would sit no more, going continually to the door, listening and sniffing; and everything felt disturbed and out of gear. That same afternoon at Sylvia's suggestion he went with her to call on the Dromores. While they were being ushered in he heard a man's voice rather high-pitched speaking in some language not his own; then the girl: “No, no, Oliver. 'Dans l'amour il y a toujours un qui aime, et l'autre qui se laisse aimer.'” She was sitting in her father's chair, and on the window-sill they saw a young man lolling, who rose and stood stock-still, with an almost insolent expression on his broad, good-looking face. Lennan scrutinized him with interest—about twenty-four he might be, rather dandified, clean-shaved, with crisp dark hair and wide-set hazel eyes, and, as in his photograph, a curious look of daring. His voice, when he vouchsafed a greeting, was rather high and not unpleasant, with a touch of lazy drawl. They stayed but a few minutes, and going down those dimly lighted stairs again, Sylvia remarked: “How prettily she said good-bye—as if she were putting up her face to be kissed! I think she's lovely. So does that young man. They go well together.” Rather abruptly Lennan answered: “Ah! I suppose they do.” VI