"All this," cried Gertrude, "sounds exciting." "I think that must be owing to the man himself," went on Frank. "Oakley knows him fairly well; says you may meet him one night at dinner, and he will ask you up to his studio. The first thing next morning you get a note putting you off; he is very sorry, but he is starting that day for India." "Does he paint Indian pictures?" "No, but is bitten at times with the 'big game' craze; shoots tigers and sticks pigs, and so on. I believe his studio is quite a museum of trophies of the chase." "By the by, Lucy, which of us is to go to The Sycamores to-morrow morning?" "You must go, Gerty; I can't trust any one else to finish off those prints of little Jack Oakley, and they have been promised so long." Gertrude consulted the letter. "I shall have to take the big camera, which involves a cab." "I wish I could have walked up with you," said Frank; "but, strange to say, I am very busy this week." "I wish we were busy," answered Gertrude; "things are a little better, but it is slow work." "I consider this letter of Darrell's a distinct move forward," cried hopeful Frank; "_he_ will be able to recommend you to artists who are not a lot of out-at-elbow fellows," he added, holding out his hand in farewell, with a bright smile that belied the rueful words. "Now, please don't forget you are all coming to tea with Oakley and me on Sunday afternoon. And Miss Devonshire--you gave her my invitation?" "Yes," said Lucy, promptly; then added after a pause: "May her brother come too; he says he would like to?" Frank scanned her quickly with his bright eyes. "Certainly, if you like; he is not a bad sort of cub." And then he departed abruptly. "That was quite rude, for Mr. Jermyn," said Gertrude. Lucy turned away with a slight flush on her fair face. "It would be quite rude for anybody," she said, and went over to the studio. Phyllis was spending the day at the Devonshires, but came back for the evening meal, by which time her sisters' excitement on the subject of Darrell's letter had subsided; and no mention was made of it while they were at table. After the meal, Phyllis went over to the window, drew up the blind, and amused herself, as was her frequent custom, by looking into the street. "I wish you wouldn't do that," said Lucy; "any one can see right into the room." "Why do you waste your breath, Lucy? You know it is never any good telling me not to do things, when I want to." Gertrude, who had herself a secret, childish love for the gas-lit street, for the sight of the hurrying people, the lamps, the hansom cabs, flickering in and out the yellow haze, like so many fire-flies, took no part in the dispute, but set to work at repairing an old skirt of Phyllis's, which was sadly torn. Meanwhile the spoilt child at the window continued her observations, which seemed to afford her considerable amusement.