“They’ll make a nice bit of colour on the dinner-table for Tommy,” she said to herself. O Clementina! O Woman! What in the name of Astarte had the gold and crimson reprobates to do with Tommy? She let herself in with her key, traversed her Sheraton drawing-room, and opened the door leading on to the studio gallery. Tommy was below, walking up and down like a young wild beast in a cage. His usually tidy hair was ruffled, as though frenzied fingers had disturbed its calm. Clementina called out: “You asked if you could come to dinner. Six o’clock isn’t dinner-time.” “I know,” he cried up at her. “I’ve been here for an hour.” She went down the spiral staircase and confronted him. “What have you been doing to your hair? It’s like Ferdinand’s in _The Tempest_. And;” noticing a new note of violence in the customary peaceful chaos of the studio, “why have you been kicking my cushions about?” “My uncle has gone stick, stark, staring, raving, lunatic mad,” said Tommy. He turned on his heel and strode to the other end of the studio. Clementina threw the parrot-tulips on a chair and drew off her left-hand old cotton glove, which she cast on the tulips. Then for a while, during Tommy’s retreat and approach, she gazed thoughtfully at the thumb-tip which protruded from the right-hand glove. “I’m not at all surprised,” she said, when Tommy joined her. “How else can you account for it?” cried Tommy, flinging his arms wide. “Account for what?” “What he has done. Listen. A week ago he came to see me, as jolly as could be. You were there——” “About as jolly as a slug,” said Clementina. “Anyway he was all right. I told the dear old chap I had unaccountably exceeded my allowance—and he sent me a cheque next day, just as he always does. This afternoon a card is brought up to me—my uncle’s card. Written on it in his handwriting: ‘To introduce Mr. Theodore Vandermeer.’” “What name?” asked Clementina, pricking her ears. “Vandermeer.” “Go on.” “I tell the servant to show him in—and in comes a dilapidated devil looking like a mangy fox——” “That’s the man.” “Do you know him?” “All right. Go on.” “—— who squirms and wriggles and beats about the bush, and at last tells me that he is commissioned by my uncle to inform me that unless I give up painting and go into some infernal City office within a month he’ll stop my allowance and cut me out of his will.” Clementina worked the thumb-tip through the hole in the right hand glove until the entire thumb was visible. “What are you going to do?” she asked.