“I won’t. Trust me. It’s partly accident that I’ve been nowhere lately, partly my habit. People used to ask me everywhere, but gave it up when they found I didn’t go anywhere. There are just a few houses always open to me, and a few pals come along here whenever they choose. I used to have jolly little informal suppers on Sundays last winter. We must start them again. A few men and women——” “But—” she interrupted, raising her eyebrows and expressing by a motion of her hands that the women would consider her taboo. “Oh, not that sort of woman, Marian. Good sorts, who believe that the world was made for men and women, not men and women for the world. We’ll send a line round to some of them: ‘Suppers begin again Sunday next. Come whenever you don’t want to go anywhere else.’ Everything’s put on the table and we wait on ourselves. Fred—Fred Mortimer—you’ll like him—is a dandy man with the chafing-dish, and when he comes we indulge in extravagant luxuries.” “You’re quite sure about me?” “Of course I am. Quite sure and quite proud. It’ll be awfully jolly having a hostess. Hullo! I wonder who this can be—don’t move.” The door opened and the servant announced Mr. Philip West. “I beg your pardon——” Marian rose. “Mrs. Squire,” said Maddison, “let me introduce Mr. Philip West. Mrs. Squire is helping me to paint a picture.” “Helping!” she exclaimed. “I’m the fly on the wheel.” West examined the picture and Marian critically. “Have you a name for it?” he asked. “Yes. ‘The Rebel.’” “It’s good,” he said slowly, “very good; it’ll be the biggest thing you’ve done. May I commission it? I’d like to have it”—he looked straight at Marian as he spoke. “That reminds me why I came here this morning. If you’ve time and inclination—I know what a particular cuss you are—I should be glad if you’d paint my wife’s portrait. I should think she might suit you. You remember her?” “I am a particular cuss,” Maddison answered, smiling grimly at the remembrance of various commissions rejected. “Have you said anything to Mrs. West?” “No.” “Then don’t, till I know whether I can paint her or not.” “Too late, coward, too late. She suggested it herself, and sent me here to bear her—commands. You and she may settle it as you like. She’s lunching at the Carlton with me—I wanted you to come, if you’re not engaged.” “Engaged, no; but I’m in the mood for work. Are you dining in town?” “We weren’t, but we will, if you’ll join us. I know there’s no persuading you to leave your work when you begin to talk about moods. Settled—dinner then?” “Yes, when? Where?” “The Carlton will do. Eight. Good-by. Good-by, Mrs. Squire. I used to know a parson of that name down in Kennington—an enthusiast——” “My husband.” “Really? Lucky man. Good-by.” Maddison went with him to the front door, and when he returned found Marian standing before the canvas.