"Never heard of them in my life! Besides, I'm looking at a picture." Cydonia vainly pretended to miss the meaning of his speech. She pointed a slender finger at the portrait of a Spanish girl, facing the pair with a bold smile, a red rose behind her ear. "I like the colour of her hair--that glossy black which looks blue..." "So do I." McTaggart smiled, "but it's not black--it's ... spun sunshine! And the only blue that I can see is a tiny vein near the temple." "I wonder," said Cydonia desperately, "how much we've made by those Tableaux?" "Fifteen pounds, four and tuppence." "_Really_? ... Not more than that?" She turned a bewildered face toward him. "Ah ... that's better," said McTaggart. "To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I haven't the faintest idea of the sum. But I was getting tired of your profile." He saw her frown and stopped short. "All right! I'll be good. But it's such fun, now, isn't it? When I think of the patient Mason matching yards of satin up at Marshall's." Cydonia laughed. The soft note echoed through the empty room, for the artist had quietly slipped away into a further one beyond. One quick glance he had given them, and his sensitive mind had received the impression. The girl, with her apple-blossom face, Spring incarnate, wooed by Summer. "It isn't often I have the chance of your company without Mamma. Don't you ever go to dances?" He watched her lips move as she answered. "Not yet--but, Peter, I forgot! I've such a lovely piece of news. I'm going to have a birthday party next month ... You'll come, won't you?" "_Rather_. I say, that's ripping! A dance? Good," as she nodded her head. "I'll bet your people will do it well." Unconsciously he voiced the sentiments expressed that morning by Mrs. Cadell. "How many dances may I have? I suppose you can't spare the lot?" The infection of his mood was catching. "One and an extra..." Cydonia laughed. "Nonsense!" He hunted for a pencil and pulled out his cuff aggressively. "Five at least. And supper too. Oh, Cydonia! you really _might_..." But over the girl's merry face a shadow fell. She turned her head with startled eyes and a quick "Hush!" as a voice outside, loud and harsh, echoed down the long passage. "It's Father!" She gave a gasp. "Oh, Peter, what shall we do?" McTaggart was on his feet. "The inner room"--he grasped her arm--"don't speak!" On tiptoe they fled. "Stand here--in this corner--it's hidden from either door." He whispered the words, his lips brushing the soft hair drawn over her ears. "Worth it--even if we're caught!" He said to himself with inward joy, conscious of the girl's hand, tightly clasped in his own. They heard the heavy step pass and enter the room beyond; then a sound of men's voices broke across their strained attention. McTaggart crept to the curtain that half veiled their hiding-place, then back to Cydonia, his smile showing his vast relief.