“Chelsea’s supposed to be cheap, my dear boy. That’s why it’s full of struggling young artists.” “I daresay Pleasance Court is cheaper. Besides, it’s pleasant. They like it.” “They?” “Jane and her friend Miss Peters, who shares rooms with her. Rather a jolly sort of girl; though----” On second thoughts Eddy refrained from mentioning that Sally Peters was a militant and had been in prison; he remembered that Mrs. Crawford found the subject tedious. But militancy will out, as must have been noticed by many. Before the visitors had been there ten minutes, Sally referred to the recent destruction of the property of a distinguished widowed lady in such laudatory terms that Mrs. Crawford discerned her in a minute, raised a disapproving lorgnette at her, murmured, “They devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long speeches,” and turned her back on her. Jolly sorts of girls who were also criminal lunatics were not suffered in the sphere of her acquaintance. Jane’s drawings were obviously charming; also they were the drawings of an artist, not of a young lady of talent. Mrs. Crawford, who knew the difference, perceived that, and gave them the tribute she always ceded to success. She thought she would ask Jane to lunch one day, without, of course, the blue-eyed child who devoured widows’ houses. She did so presently. Jane said, “Thank you so much, but I’m afraid I can’t,” and knitted her large forehead a little, in her apologetic way, so obviously trying to think of a suitable reason why she couldn’t, that Mrs. Crawford came to her rescue with “Perhaps you’re too busy,” which was gratefully accepted. “I am rather busy just now.” Jane was very polite, very deprecating, but inwardly she reproached Eddy for letting in on her strange ladies who asked her to lunch. That no one ought to be too busy for social engagements, was what Mrs. Crawford thought, and she turned a little crisper and cooler in manner. Molly was standing before a small drawing in a corner--a drawing of a girl, bare-legged, childish, half elfin, lying among sedges by a stream, one leg up to the knee in water, and one arm up to the elbow. Admirably the suggestion had been caught of a small wild thing, a little half-sulky animal. Molly laughed at it. “That’s Daffy, of course. It’s not like her--and yet it _is_ her. A sort of inside look it’s got of her; hasn’t it, Eddy? I suppose it looks different because Daffy’s always so neat and tailor-made, and never _would_ be like that. It’s a different Daffy, but it is Daffy.” “Your pretty little sister, isn’t it, Eddy,” said Mrs. Crawford, who had met Daphne at Welchester. “Yes, that’s clever. ‘Undine,’ you call it. Why? Has she no soul?” Jane smiled and retired from this question. She seldom explained why her pictures were so called; they just were.