Yet, once or twice, when a gay company filled her studio, amid the chatter and music and movement of dancers, he became aware of her level, grey eyes gravely intent on him—but always the gravity he surprised in them turned to a quick, frank smile when his gaze encountered hers, and she always made him some pretty signal of recognition across the animated scene. As for Helen, he always got on delightfully with that charming and capable girl. There was something very engaging about her, she was so wholesome, so energetic, so busy, so agreeable to look at. He had acquired a habit of dropping in on his way out to lunch to watch her working on the sketches and studies for "Aspiration;" but one day she forgot to warn him and he blundered into the courtyard where, on a white circus-horse, a lovely, slender, but rather startling figure hid its face in its hands and desperately attempted to make a garment of its loosened hair, while an elderly female holding the horse’s head cried "Shoo!" and Helen hustled him out, a little perturbed and intensely amused. "I ought to have told you," she said. "I wouldn’t mind, but even professional models object to anybody except, occasionally, another artist." "I’m sorry," he said. "Please tell little Miss Eve that I didn’t mean to scare her." They chatted for a few minutes, then Helen smilingly excused herself and went back to her work, and Cleland continued on his way to lunch, chagrined at his stupidity. "I wonder," he thought, "if that was my little unknown dancing partner? Now, she will think I’ve ’spoiled it all.’" He was in masculine error again. Disconcerted beauty has the consolation that it is beautiful. Otherwise, it remains merely outraged modesty; and bitterness abides in its soul. Helen, laughingly mentioning the affair to Stephanie, still immensely amused at Cleland’s distress and apologetic blushes, added that the model, Marie Cliff, had been sensible enough to appreciate the humour of it, too. "You mean," said Stephanie, coldly, "that she didn’t care." And, not smiling, went on with her sewing. "She’s rather a refined type," said Helen, looking curiously at the girl who, bent over her mending, was plying her needle furiously. Stephanie shrugged. "Don’t you think so, Steve?" "No. I think her typically common." "How odd! She’s quite young, and she’s really very nice and modest—not the type of person you seem to imagine——" "I don’t _like_ her," interrupted Stephanie calmly. But her slender fingers were flying, and she had set her teeth in her under lip, which had trembled a little. Helen, chancing to mention Cleland that night as they were preparing for bed, was astonished at Stephanie’s impatient comment: "Oh, Jim’s quite spoiled. I’m rapidly losing interest in that young man." "Why?" asked Helen, surprised. "Because he runs about with queer people. No man can do that and not show it in his own manner." "What people, Steve?"