Phyllys wondered, but would not suggest—was Mrs. Wyverne conscious of his resemblance to the lost painting? She might have spoken her thought but for a second question—could Mrs. Wyverne have seen that other picture, hidden in the cabinet, if, indeed, it was another? She took an opportunity to inquire whether the lost portrait had been found, and Colin replied in the negative. He showed little interest in the topic. Barbara yielded more slowly. Colin was a man, and she detested men; he was an artist, and she despised Art. The bust aroused her righteous indignation; not altogether righteous, since jealousy of Phyllys had a share. Though not great in self-knowledge, she perhaps knew this. But she gave the reins to what she felt, and ruthlessly stigmatised sculpture as worldly, wasteful, an encouragement to vanity; not sparing words, till silence on his part grew impressive, and she met those blue eyes, looking not "at" but "into" her, with a depth of understanding which brought her to a dead halt. "Yes," he said slowly, and waited. She had no more to say. Did he read to the ground of her motives? Was she to him a transparency? Then came his winning smile; a smile which few could withstand. It took her captive on the spot. "Try for yourself," he said sweetly. And the household stood open-mouthed to see Miss Pringle seated before the improvised modelling-stool which, with Mrs. Wyverne's permission, had been set up in the study. She clumsily fingered a lump of clay; she submitted to be lectured. The results of her fingering need not be described. The results of his manipulation were that he thenceforth dragged her, a helpless victim, at his chariot wheels. "It's too comical for anything," declared the Vicar, his shoulders shaking. "Miss Pringle, of all people! That lad could make the trees run after him if he chose." How much Colin laughed privately no one knew. He maintained in public his gentle and detached demeanour. Difficulties were cleared away so far as might be from his path, the household uniting to supply his wants. He had the exclusive use of the little back-room; and a water-tap was outside his door. Phyllys was allowed to sit to him for two hours each day, Mrs. Wyverne being present with her knitting, while Barbara came in and out, hanging round in wordless admiration, never dreaming how her fidgety movements and creaking shoes tried the young sculptor. She did not agree with his views; she counted still that Art was a delusion. But Colin Keith she confessed to be the one really agreeable man whom she had met on the face of the earth.