"Six months." "And before that where were you?" "At home." "Oh; Mr. Sprowl was your first employer!" "Yes." "Why did you leave?" The girl hesitated so long that he thought she had not understood, and was about to repeat the question when something in her pallor and in her uplifted eyes checked him. "I don't know why I was sent away," she said in a colourless voice. He thought for a while, then, carelessly: "I take it that there was nothing irregular in _your_ conduct?" "No." "You'd tell me if there was, wouldn't you?" She lifted her dark eyes to his. "Yes," she said. How much of an expert he was at judging faces he did not know, but he was perfectly satisfied with himself when she took her leave. And when Dankmere came in after luncheon he said: "I've engaged a book-keeper. Her name is Jessie Vining. She's evidently unhappy, poor, underfed, and the prettiest thing you ever saw out of a business college. So, being unhappy, poor, underfed _and_ pretty, I take it that she's all to the good." "It's a generous world of men," said Dankmere--"so I guess she _is_ good." "I'm sure of it. She was Sprowl's private stenographer--and he sent her away.... There are three reasons why he might have dismissed her. I've taken my choice of them." "Did he give her a letter?" "No." "Oh. Then I've taken my choice, too." "Kyte ventured to give her a letter," said Quarren. "I've heard that Kyte _could_ be decent sometimes." "I see." Nothing further was said about the new book-keeper. His lordship went into the back parlour and played the piano until satiated; then mixed himself a lime julep. That afternoon they went over the reports of the experts very carefully. From these reports and his own conclusions Quarren drafted a catalogue while Dankmere went about sticking adhesive labels on the frames, all numbered. And, as he trotted blithely about his work, he talked to himself and to the pictures: "Here's number nine for you, old lady! If I'd had a face like that I'd have killed the artist who transferred it to canvas!... Number sixteen for you there in your armour! Somebody in Springfield will buy you for an ancestor and that's what will happen to you.... And you, too, in a bag-wig!--_you'll_ be some rich Yankee's ancestor before you know it! That's the way you'll end, my smirking friend.... Hello! _Tiens!_ _In Gottes namen_--whom have we here? Why, it's Venus!... And hot weather is no excuse for going about _that_ way!... Listen to this, Quarren, for an impromptu patter-song--