It was a charming room, with pale grey walls and a pale green carpet, and very little in it except, let in as a panel, a delicate low-toned portrait of the mistress of the house, vaguely appearing through vaporous curtains, holding pale flowers, and painted with a rather mysterious effect by that talented young amateur, her cousin, Harry de Freyne. It had been his sole success in art, and had been exhibited at the Grafton Galleries under the name of The Gilded Lily. No one had ever known or was ever likely to know whether the title referred to the decorative, if botanically impossible, blossom in her hand, or to the golden hair of the seductive sitter. Romer Wyburn paused a moment--he always paused before speaking--and then said very slowly-- "Oh! Really? You think it will look better if I don't go with you?" He invariably spoke with the greatest deliberation, and with no expression whatever. "Oh yes, dear, I'm sure it would," she repeated coaxingly. "Do you mean if you go without me?" "What else can I mean?" "It'll look better, you think; eh? Is that the idea?" He sat down opposite the portrait, lighted a cigarette, and thought. Then he said with ruminating interest-- "I don't see why. Why will it look so much better for me not to go with you?" "Oh, Romer dear, really! It's one of those things that are almost impossible to explain. Oh, if you'd only do just what I advise--if you'd only _go_ by me, and not want these long tedious explanations, how much better it would be! You see, Harry is giving this dinner _on purpose_ so that Daphne shall meet Van Buren by accident. You know all about Van Buren, _the_ Van Buren--the millionaire, who turns out to be a dear creature and quite charming! and has taken the _greatest_ fancy to Harry, and clings on to him, and keeps on and on asking him to ask him to meet people. You must own it would be rather jolly for Daphne, because, of course, you can't _think_ how he's run after--I mean Van Buren--and he isn't an ordinary American snob, and it really and truly isn't only his millionairishness, but he's a real person, and good-looking and nice as well; and though, Heaven knows, I'm as romantic as anybody--for myself--I wouldn't be so selfish as to be romantic for her too, and I can't help feeling it's our duty, being in the place of parents to her, to give the angel a sporting chance! Of course, the point is, Van Buren has told Harry he only likes nice English girls very well brought up, and he wants to settle down in England, and he thinks that any relation of Harry's must be perfect; and, naturally, I'm pleased. I feel exactly like a mother to Daphne, although she's only six years younger." "Well, that's all right. I see all that." Romer seemed rather bored, as men naturally are at a long catalogue of another man's advantages. "Now, look here. Why would it look better for me not to go?"