GERTRUDE ENGLISH, with her hands clasped behind her, stood looking over Allestree’s shoulder and watching him as he worked, in a desultory way, at some details of Margaret’s now nearly finished portrait. It was good work, but it lacked the inspiration of his picture of Rose; it had been, indeed, well nigh impossible to convey the mockery, the uninterpreted mystery of Margaret’s glance. “You haven’t made the face half sad enough,” was Gerty’s candid criticism, “and her eyes--do you suppose any one else ever had quite such eyes?” Allestree smiled. “I was going to say that I hoped not, but I suppose you would construe that as a want of appreciation.” Miss English opened her own eyes. “Of course I should,” she said promptly, “and I can’t see what you mean; her eyes are lovely!” “Admitted!” he said teasingly; “you can’t understand me, Gerty; I have vagaries.” “Oh, I suppose that’s genius, isn’t it?” “Precisely, genius is a form, a mild one, of adolescent insanity.” “Well, don’t get violent while I’m here, Robert,” she retorted; “I have enough of whirlwind and tornado just now with Margaret. Heavens, how glad I’d be if I didn’t have to go to Omaha with her!” “Poor child, must you?” Allestree stopped painting and looked around with open sympathy. “Oh, yes, I must,” Gerty replied with resignation; “I’m homely and poor, Robert, and they will take me along labelled--‘Propriety, reduced gentlewoman as secretary and chaperon, age near thirty, conduct exemplary, travelling expenses paid!’” “I’d take to the woods, Gerty!” he laughed, not without sympathy; he dimly imagined the sting under the words. “Or do something outrageous and get sent home--I wish I could, but I’d starve,” Gerty said calmly; “nothing else keeps me in the straight and narrow way but the fact that meat is twenty cents a pound and bread five. Isn’t it sordid? But I’m really dreadfully sorry for Margaret!” “I was beginning to lose sight of that fact,” remarked Allestree dryly. “I’m not sorry for Fox though,” she added, laughing maliciously. Allestree frowned, concentrating his attention on the picture again. “It’s a wretched business,” he observed. Gerty walked to the window and looked out; when she came back her face was flushed. “Robert, do you know I’m afraid that I did something wrong the other day,” she broke out; “I’m nearly sure I did!” He looked at her smiling grimly. “You forgot about the scale of domestic necessities then, Gerty?” he said. But she ignored him. “I went to see Rose some time ago, just after Margaret told me, and I talked--I talked too much.” “The unruly member, alas!” he mocked, laughing now. “I did,” she replied. “I told her about Fox and Margaret--and Robert,” Gerty paused and dropped into a convenient chair, “Robert, she turned as white as a ghost! Is it possible, do you think it’s possible that she loves Fox? I never thought of it until Lily Osborne told me so last week.”