Bulstrode's late companionship with youth had imparted to him a boyish look. His friend narrowly observed him, and her charming face clouded with one of those almost imperceptible _nuances_ that the faces of those women wear who feel everything and by habit reveal nothing. "I'm not a victim." Bulstrode's tone was regretful. "One might say, on the contrary, this time that I was possibly overpaid." "Yes?" "I haven't," he explained and regretted, "seen you for a long time." "I've been automobiling in Touraine." Mrs. Falconer gave him no opportunity to be delinquent. "And I," he confessed, "have been posing for my portrait. Don't," he pleaded, "laugh at me--it isn't for a miniature or a locket; it's life-size, horribly life-size. I've had to stand, off and on with the rests, three hours a day, and I've done so _every day for three weeks_." Mrs. Falconer regarded him with indulgent amusement. "It's your fault--you took me to see those awful school-girl paintings and pointed out that poor young creature to me." And he was interrupted by her exclamation: "Oh, how _dear_ of you, Jimmy! how sweet and kind and ridiculous! It won't be fit to be seen." "Oh, never mind that," he waved; "no one need see it. I haven't--she won't let me." He had accepted a cup of tea from the lady's hand; he drank it off and sat down, holding the empty cup as if he held his fate. "Tell me," she urged, "all about it. It was just like you--any other man would have found means to show charity, but you have shown unselfish goodness, and that's the rarest thing in the world. Fancy posing every day! How ghastly and how wonderful of you!" "No," he said slowly, "it wasn't any of these things. I wanted to do it. It amused me at first, you see. But now I am a little annoyed--rather bothered to tell the truth--He met her eyes with almost an appeal in his. Mrs. Falconer was in kindness bound to help him. "Bothered? How, pray? With what part of it? You're not chivalrous about it, are you? You're not by the way of feeling that you have compromised her by posing?" "Oh, no, no," he hurried; "but I do feel, and I am frank to acknowledge, that it was a mistake. Because--do you know--that for some absurd reason I am afraid she has become fond of me." He blushed like a boy. Mrs. Falconer said coldly: "Yes? Well, what of it?" "This--" Bulstrode's voice was quiet and determined--"if I am right I shall marry her." Mrs. Falconer had the advantage over most women of completely understanding the man with whom she dealt. She knew that to attempt to turn from its just and generous source any intent of Mr. Bulstrode would have been as futile as to attempt to turn a river from its parent fountain. "You're quixotic, I know, but you're not demented, and you won't certainly marry this nobody--whose fancies or love-affairs have not the least importance. You won't ever see her again unless you are in love with her yourself." Bulstrode interrupted her hastily: