It was an event in the girl’s life, this hour at the prettily set table, with its bowl of roses aglow in the soft candle-light; the silent service; the leisure born of plenty and secure from the clutch of time. Her awe passed. Mrs. Craighill had been kind and Jean was taking her kindness at its face value, and in apparent ignorance of its ulterior intention. She saw in Mrs. Craighill a woman of the ampler world, whom the gods had favoured with good looks and fortune, and Jean studied her with an artist’s eye. Adelaide Craighill’s head, so admirably set on her pretty neck, had never pleased anyone more. That half-languorous droop of the lids that withheld the full gaze of her eyes for sudden, unexpected, flashing contacts, was not without its fascination. If Jean Morley interested Mrs. Craighill, Mrs. Craighill interested Jean Morley even more. Jean’s frankness, now that her diffidence had passed, revealed her in a new light. Wayne had never placed her, never found an adequate background for her. In their several meetings he had been satisfied with what the moment disclosed. A reference to her fondness for walking served to open a long vista, which his fancy crowded with pictures. “I was born and brought up in the hills,” Jean said, “but a long way from here. I don’t belong in the soft coal country--my home is in the anthracite region. I never was here before, and probably shouldn’t be here now if it weren’t that I’m able to spend the winter in study at the Institute. I think I like my own country better than this; I have never been in cities very much. Just a few times I have been down to Philadelphia to look at the exhibitions. I should have spent this year there, but I came here, for several reasons, and now the winter is going so fast and I have so little to show for it.” “You can’t do it all in one winter,” Mrs. Craighill remarked sympathetically. “No--and you can’t do much in many winters! I’m not a genius--I know that as well as anybody; but I want to make the most of my little talent. Bad pictures seem so much worse than anything else--worse than bad music even. It’s better not to start if you’ve got to go on forever being an amateur.” “Well, one has the fun of trying,” murmured Mrs. Craighill. She had seen American students abroad on their eternal pursuit of fame, and her words were lightly shaded with her forbearance of all hopeless aspirants. “Did you always fancy pictures and drawing?”