"This is a pencil drawing of the great gates," he went on, ignoring Fenley. "Of course, they're Wren's, and therefore beautiful. Roxton Park holds a real treasure in those gates, Miss Manning. Here is a water-color sketch of the house and grounds. Do you like it?" "Oh, it is exquisite! Why, you have caught the very glint of sunshine on the walls and roofs, and it is shimmering in the leaves of that copper beech. Ah me! It looks so easy." Robert peered over her shoulder. Sylvia's gasp of admiration annoyed him; but he looked and said nothing. "This," continued Trenholme, "is an unfinished study of the lake. I was so busily occupied that I was not aware of your presence until you were quite near at hand. Then when you dived into the water I grabbed a canvas and some tubes of paint. Here is the result--completed, to a large extent, in my room at the inn." He took a picture out of a compartment of the portfolio specially constructed to protect an undried surface, and placed it at an angle that suited the light. His tone was unconcerned, for he had steeled himself against this crucial moment. Would she be angered? Would those limpid blue eyes, violet now in shadow, be raised to his in protest and vexed dismay? During the brief walk to and from the inn he had recollected the girl's age, her surroundings, the cramping influences of existence in a society of middle-class City folk. He felt like a prisoner awaiting a verdict when the issue was doubtful, and a wave of impulse might sway the jury one way or the other. But he held his head high, and his face flushed slightly, for there could be no gainsaying the message glowing from that cunning brush work. There were two goddesses, one in marble and one palpitating with life. The likeness, too, was undeniable. If one was a replica of Greek art at its zenith, the other was unmistakably Sylvia Manning. The girl gazed long and earnestly. Her pale cheeks had reddened for an instant, but the flood of surprise and emotion ebbed as quickly as it flowed, and left her wan, with parted lips. At last she looked at Trenholme and spoke. "Thank you!" she said, and their eyes met. The artist understood; and he in turn, blanched somewhat. Rather hastily he replaced the picture in its receptacle. Robert Fenley coughed and grinned, and the spell was broken. "You said I'd call it hot stuff," he said. "Well, you sized my opinion up to a T. Of course, it's jolly clever--any fellow can see that----" "Good night, Mr. Trenholme," said Sylvia, and she made off at a rapid pace. Robert grinned again. "No young lady would stand that sort of thing," he chuckled. "You didn't really think she would--eh, what? But look here, I'll buy it. Send me a line later." He hurried after Sylvia, running to overtake her. Trenholme stood there a long time; in fact, until the two were hidden by the distant line of trees. Then he smiled.