For once, indeed, Fan's tactlessness had succeeded where the finest tact might have failed. In dropping at once into position as the Fanny of ten years ago; as the incarnation of all that is sweetest and most essentially feminine in woman; in making of herself an accepted and indisputable fact, she had unconsciously done the very best to secure her own happiness. "There really is something about Fanny that pleases men. I have always said so," Phyllis remarked, as she watched the lovers sailing blissfully down Baker Street, on one of their many house-hunting expeditions. "You know," added Lucy, "she always dislikes walking about alone, because people speak to her. No one ever speaks to us, do they, Gerty?" "Nor to me--at least, not often," said Phyllis, ruefully. "Phyllis, will you never learn where to draw the line?" cried Gertrude; "but it is quite true about Fan. She must be that mysterious creature, a man's woman." "Mr. Darrell likes her," broke forth Phyllis, after a pause; "he laughs at her in that quiet way of his, but I am quite sure that he likes her. I hope," she added, "that she won't get married before my portrait is finished. But it wouldn't matter, I could go without a chaperon." "No, you couldn't," said Gertrude, shortly. "Why are you seized with such notions of propriety all of a sudden?" "I have no wish to put us to a disadvantage by ignoring the ordinary practices of life." "Then put up the shutters and get rid of the lease. But, Gerty, we needn't discuss this unpleasant matter yet awhile. By the by, Mr. Darrell is going to ask me to sit for him in a picture, after the portrait. He has made sketches for it already--something out of one of Shakespeare's plays." "Oh, I am tired of Mr. Darrell's name. Go and see that your dress is in order for the Devonshires' dance to-night." "_Apropos_," said Lucy, as Phyllis flitted off on the congenial errand, "why is it that we never see anything of Conny in these days?" "She is going out immensely this season," answered Gertrude, dropping her eye-lids; "but, at any rate, we get a double allowance of Fred to compensate." "Silly boy," cried Lucy, flushing slightly, "he has actually made me promise to sit out two dances with him. Such waste, when one is dying for a waltz." "Oh, there will be plenty of waltzing. I wish you could have my share," sighed Gertrude, who had been won over by Conny's entreaties to promise attendance at the dance that night. "It is time you left off these patriarchal airs, Gerty. You are as fond of dancing as any of us; and I mean you to spin round all night like a teetotum." "What a charming picture you conjure up, Lucy." "You people with imaginations are always finding fault. Fortunately for me, I have no imagination, and very little humour," said Lucy, with an air of genuine thankfulness that delighted her sister.