"They haven't been sold," he said, with a short laugh. "What a shame! Oh, Mr. Vernon, I do think people might have had better taste." "So do I," he smiled, "but they haven't had. I've made nothing here but friends." He had a musical voice, rather deep, and very readily expressive of what he strongly felt. His last sentence rang in Jean's ears like a declaration of love. Her eyes fell and her color rose. "We have all been very glad to see you." He shook his head; his eyes fastened on her all the time. "No, you haven't." She looked up, but meeting that devouring gaze, looked down again. "Not all of you," he added. "Your father disapproves of me, your eldest brother detests me, and your aunt distrusts me. It's only you and Frank who have been my friends." Frank was her soldier brother, and Jean adored him. She thought she could never care for any one but a soldier, till she encountered art and Lucas Vernon. "Yes, Frank certainly does like you very much indeed," she said warmly. "Don't you?" "Yes," she answered firmly. He smiled and bent towards her. "Your hand on it!" She held out her hand, and he took it and kept it. (At that moment Mr. Walkingshaw was opening his front door.) For a minute they sat in silence, and then she tried gently to draw the hand away. "Let me keep it for a little!" he pleaded. "I'm going away. I shan't hold it again for Heaven knows how long." His voice was so caressing that she ceased to grudge him five small fingers. (Mr. Walkingshaw had removed his muffler and was hanging up his coat.) "Are you at all sorry I'm going?" "Yes," murmured Jean, "Frank and I--we'll both miss you." The artist murmured too, but very indistinctly. The idea he expressed thus inadequately was, "Hang Frank!" But she heard the next word too plainly for her self-possession. "Jean!" (Mr. Walkingshaw was now ascending his well-carpeted staircase.) She gave him one glance which she meant for reproof; but when he saw her eyes, so loving and a little moist, he covered the short space between them with one movement, and was on his knees before her. "Do you love me?" he whispered. Her head bent over his, and she answered very faintly something like "Yes." Mr. Walkingshaw entered his drawing-room. For a moment there was a painful pause. Jean's face had turned a becoming shade of crimson, and the artist was on his feet. Naturally the woman spoke first. "I--I didn't expect you back so soon, father." "So I perceive," said Mr. Walkingshaw. The young man turned to him with creditable composure. "One can hardly judge of the effect in this light," said he. Mr. Walkingshaw had heard of people becoming insane under the stress of a sudden shock, and he wondered uneasily whether this misfortune had befallen Lucas Vernon or himself. The artist perceived his success, and hope began to rise afresh. He cocked his head professionally on one side and examined the confounded girl. "We must try the pose in my studio."