There were not many business letters to write--one to the Metropolitan Museum people declining to present them with a charming little picture by Netscher which they wanted but did not wish to pay for; one to the Worcester Museum advising that progressive institution that, at the request of their director, four canvases had been shipped to them for inspection; several letters enclosing photographs of pictures desired by foreign experts; and a notification to one or two local millionaires that the Dankmere Galleries never shaded prices or exchanged canvases. Having accomplished the last of the day's work remaining up to that particular minute, Jessie Vining leaned back in her chair, rubbed her pretty eyes, glanced partly around toward Lord Dankmere but checked herself, and, with her lips the slightest shade pursed up into a hint of primness, picked up the library novel which she had been reading during intervals of leisure. It was mainly about a British Peer. The Peer did not resemble Dankmere in any particular; she had already noticed that. And now, as she read on, and, naturally enough, compared the ideal peer with the real one, the difference became painfully plain to her. Could that short young man in rather mussy summer clothes, sorting prints over there, be a peer of the British realm? Was this young man, whom she had seen turning handsprings on the grass in the backyard, a belted Earl? In spite of herself her short upper lip curled slightly as she turned from her book to glance at him. He looked up at the same moment, and smiled on meeting her eye--such a kindly yet diffident smile that she blushed a trifle. "I say, Miss Vining, I've gone over all these prints and I can't find one that resembles the Hogarth portrait--if it is a Hogarth." "Mr. Quarren thinks it is." "I daresay he's quite right, but there's nothing here to prove it"; and he slapped the huge portfolio shut, laid his hands on the table, vaulted to the top of it, and sat down. Miss Vining resumed her reading. "Miss Vining?" "Yes?" very leisurely. "How _old_ do you think I am?" "I beg your pardon----" "How old do you think I am?" "Really I hadn't thought about it, Lord Dankmere." "Oh." Miss Vining resumed her reading. When the Earl had sat on top of the table long enough he got down and dropped into the depths of an armchair. "Miss Vining," he said. "Yes?" incuriously. "Have you thought it out yet?" "Thought out what, Lord Dankmere?" "How old I am." "Really," she retorted, half laughing, half vexed, "do you suppose that my mind is occupied in wondering what your age might be?" "Isn't it?" "Of course not." "Don't you want to know?" She began to laugh again: "Why, if you wish to tell me of course it will interest me _most_ profoundly." And she made him a graceful little bow. "I'm thirty-three," he said. "Thank you so much for telling me." "You are welcome," he returned gravely. "Do you think I'm too old?" "Too old for what?"