Thurley had no calling cards—not every detail can be achieved in a magical space of time—so she told the maid to say it was Miss Precore and that she was expected. At which she was shown into the strangest living-room, to her untutored eyes, that she could imagine. It had a black and white tiled floor and green Pompeiian furniture with oddly shaped cushions in still odder places and distinctive mirrors hung on dull, green chains. The piano was in the center of the room and all about the walls were bizarre black and white etchings and some fascinating marines. At the end of the room, the light striking it in excellent manner, was the portrait of a man. As Thurley looked at it, she wondered if she was to go from strange room to stranger room seeing portraits which fascinated her and then meet their originals only to gaze on another portrait equally strange and winsome. This man was noticeable for his well-shaped head with its short, dark hair and fine, large eyes, hazel she would judge, slightly mocking and lying-in-wait in their expression. They were encased with spectacles of scholarly aspect. He had a womanish chin and the tortured, lined brow of the apostle. Dressed in riding togs, he was sitting on the bench of an old garden, one hand betraying slim, artistic fingers as it rested on the head of a grizzled dog. Thurley was settling herself in a nearby chair, trying to become accustomed to this very different sort of “scenery,” when a woman began saying in a deep, rich voice, “Poor youngster, tired out, aren’t you? Was it scales? How I hated them! Don’t worry, I shall not ask you to sing. Put this cushion behind you—ah, here we are.” Thurley stared at her hostess, the same scarlet-lipped, clever-faced woman of the portrait, her blue-black hair combed high to-day and her spatulate hands clasping her knee in boy fashion. She wore no jewelry, but a frock the consonance of copper and silver. It gave the effect of sunset over still water and a silver-coated Persian cat stalked out to settle himself in the fold of her skirt. “It was very good of you to ask me,” Thurley began, feeling rather ill at ease. “I never ask any one I don’t want. So don’t feel obligated. Every one says I’m selfishness personified. Bliss says you’re to be one of our family and I want to be sort of elder sister—anyway, don’t you approve of tea and scandal at the same time?” Her smile softened her face. She reached over to a smoking stand and found a cigarette. Encouraged, Thurley leaned forward to say, “I’m afraid I don’t know about the family. You see I’m quite raw, as they say. And dreadfully confused. I find I have to acquire so many things besides singing exercises.”