Pretty Sue Clayton with her ringlets and rosy cheeks had not been Oliver's only listener. His mother had been sitting inside the drawing-room, just beside the open window. She had spoken to Sue and Oliver when they first mounted the steps, and had begged them both to come in, but they had forgotten her presence. Unintentionally, therefore, she had heard every word of the conversation. Her old fears rushed over her again with renewed force. She had never for a moment supposed that Oliver wanted to be a painter--like Mr. Crocker! Now at last she understood his real object in talking to Lavinia the night of the musical. "Richard," she called softly to her husband sitting in the adjoining room, in the chair that Malachi, in accordance with the old custom, had with his sweeping bow made ready for him. The inventor had been there since tea was over, lying back in his seat, his head resting on his hand. He had had one of his thoughtful days, worrying over some detail of his machine, still incomplete. The new device of which he had told her with such glee had failed, as had the others. The motor was still incomplete. "Richard," she repeated. "Yes, my dear," he answered, in his gentle voice. He had not heard her at first. "Bring your chair over here." The inventor rose instantly and, crossing the room, took a seat beside her, his hand finding hers in the dark. "What is this you have been saying to Oliver about artists being great men?" she asked. "He's got a new idea in his head now--he wants to be a painter. I've thought for some time that Mr. Crocker was not a proper person for him to be so much with. He has evidently worked on the boy's imagination until he has determined to give up the law and study art." "How do you know?" "I've just heard him tell Sue Clayton so. All he wants now is my consent--he says he has yours." The inventor paused, and gently smoothed his wife's fingers with his own. "And you would not give it?" he inquired. "How could I? It would ruin him--don't you know it?" There was a slight tinge of annoyance in her voice--not one of fault-finding, but rather of anxiety. "That depends, my dear, on how well he could succeed," he answered, gently. "Why, Richard!" She withdrew her hand quickly from his caressing touch, and looked at him in undisguised astonishment. "What has his SUCCEEDING to do with it? Surely you cannot be in earnest? I am willing he should do anything to make his living, but not that. No one we know has ever been a painter. It is neither respectable nor profitable. You see what a dreadful existence Mr. Crocker leads--hardly an associate in town, and no acquaintances for his daughter, and he's been painting ever since he was a boy. Oliver could not earn a penny at such work." "Money is not everything, my dear, nor social recognition. There are many things I would value more." "What are they?" She was facing him now, her brows knit, a marked antagonism in her voice.