They were walking down the hall into his drawing-room, spick and span by contrast, done in the coolest of grays with long, glimmering curtains of silver damask, the furniture of polished magnolia wood with a yellow-topped Italian marble console and many-branched silver candlesticks. The only ornament in the room was Hobart’s portrait; it stood on a great easel on a platform, curtains halfway veiling it. Thurley’s heart began an annoying pit-a-pat as she sought the correct light in which to view it. Polly and Collin each taking a curtain threw them back together and for a long instant Thurley was silent as she looked with eyes, as betraying of her love as Polly’s had been, at the wonderful face of a man. It was a man who had recently left happy youth behind because he had discovered it to be disillusioning and had taken up manhood with no disgruntled attitude of resentment nor aggressive determination to win by trickery but with ideals—ideals impossible to defeat but hidden so safely from the world at large that they were incapable of practical expression. The lips smiled of love and sighed for regret and prayed for all the universe—there was that much painted into the picture. The eyes were shining, gray eyes showing the art of putting a bad ending to the purpose of becoming a good and fresh beginning. He was one who would try to practise some ancient but forgotten unity of the human race. As Thurley stared at the strange face with its rare smile of understanding, she recalled the Scotch legend of the Wells of Peace which an old circus clown had told her of years ago. The Wells of Peace, so the clown had said, were Love, Beauty, Dreams, Endurance, Compassion, Rest, Love Fulfilled! All the “little people” of the hills and forest, even the peewits who had been baseborn children, were searching endlessly for the Wells of Peace—for he who found them and drank of the water could wish for anything in the world and it would be his! “Kiss her, Collin; that will make her speak! Are you turning into a statue, Thurley?” Thurley stirred at the sound of Polly’s voice. Collin was holding back the curtain and laughing at her. “Never knew I could hold a pose so long,” he said as he dropped it. “Why, Thurley, are you so susceptible to an old brigand like Bliss? Fancy him, now, walking down Piccadilly and humming, “‘I’m going back to Lunnon, “‘To tea and long frock coats’ —and a bevy of peeresses trailing afterwards!” Thurley let the actress in her shield the woman. She made laughable comments about the portrait, vowing that the color scheme of the room had given her new ideas for costumes, going through the rest of Parva Sed Apta with a careless demeanor. The dining-room should have been a charming spot with its green English Chintz, dead white walls and red and gold furniture, but it was heaped with soiled dishes and curious cooking utensils piled high with “concoctions.”