Mrs. Cadell still watched her with restless dark eyes. "Do you like doing that?" Cydonia raised her head. "Oh yes, Madre." Her voice was mildly surprised, "I'm copying that Byzantine piece we found at Verona. Don't you remember, dear?--the day it rained so hard." Her mother smiled. "Would you care to go back there again?--to Italy, I mean? I really think we must stay at Venice for Easter--you'd like that beautiful service at St. Mark's--and then"--her thoughts ran on--"we could go through the Dolomites and perhaps put in a week in Vienna. What do you think of the plan yourself?" "It sounds very nice." Cydonia's even voice held no enthusiasm, and again Mrs. Cadell gave a little frown. She had the net impression that had she said Margate her daughter would have acquiesced with equal serenity. "Well, it's some way off yet." She was gathering up her book when the door was burst open and a short fat man, red-faced and impatient, bounced into the room as though propelled by an invisible force behind. "Just looked in, Helen, to say I'm going now. Back to dinner eight sharp and bringing Cleaver Jones. Why, Cydonia!"--he paused by his daughter's side, hands thrown up in jesting admiration. "How smart we are!-- Is this for the Bishop?" With clumsy affection he caught her by the chin. "Give your father a kiss ... there's my good girl!" Dutifully she pressed her lips to his rough cheek. Then, bustling round, in his harsh loud voice he added a final instruction to his wife. "You won't forget, Helen, about Cleaver Jones? And tell Harris to get up some of the old port. I want to come to terms with him over that group." He laid his hand as he spoke on a beautiful bronze that stood on a column near the open door. "Shall never get another bargain like this"--a note of regret sounded through the speech. "Oh--by the way--can you come to-morrow to Christie's? There's a picture that Amos thinks..." He checked himself abruptly as a bell below pealed through the house. "That's the Bishop--I'm off!" and the door slammed behind him. They heard his heavy steps clattering downstairs. Mrs. Cadell drew a breath of relief, Cydonia, imperturbable, added another stitch. Her father's volcanic methods rarely disturbed her nerves, though they left the older woman quivering. Mrs. Cadell rose to her feet and straightened her hair in the mirror beside her. Very tall and angular in her draped black dress, she had that indefinable air of authority which clings to those whose mission in life has been to instruct the young. Past long since was the drudgery of those days: the cramped school hours, the dreary evenings alone. But the educational atmosphere still lingered about her, the outward stamp of hard-won culture. Well--it had brought her much! This life of luxury, an outlet for her insatiable ambition; and, greater miracle, a fair young daughter, flesh of her own flesh--but no child of her mind.