It had been of slow growth at first--imperceptibly their relations had grown from a footing of distant civility to a companionship almost cordial--but not quite; for she was still shy with him at times, and he with her; and she had her moods of unresponsive reserve, and he was moody, too, at intervals. "You don't like me to make fun of you, do you?" she asked. "Don't I laugh as though I like it?" She knitted her pretty brows: "I don't quite know. You see you're a British peer--which is really a very wonderful thing----" "Oh, come," he said: "it really _is_ rather a wonderful thing, but you don't believe it." "Yes, I do. I stand in awe of you. When you come into the room I seem to hear trumpets sounding in the far distance----" "My boots squeak----" "Nonsense! I _do_ hear a sort of a fairy fanfare playing 'Hail to the Belted Earl!'" "I wear braces----" "How common of you to distort my meaning! I don't care, you may do as you like--dance break-downs and hammer the piano, but to me you will ever remain a British peer--poor but noble----" "Wait until we hear from that Van Dyck! You can't call me poor then!" She laughed, then, looking at him earnestly, involuntarily clasped her hands. "Isn't it perfectly wonderful," she breathed with a happy, satisfied sigh. "Are you really very happy about it, Miss Vining?" "I? Why shouldn't I be!" she said indignantly. "I'm so proud that our gallery has such a picture. I'm so proud of Mr. Quarren for discovering it--and--" she laughed--"I'm proud of you for possessing it. You see I am very impartial; I'm proud of the gallery, of everybody connected with it including myself. Shouldn't I be?" "We are three very perfect people," he said gravely. "Do you know that we really are? Mr. Quarren is wonderful, and you are--agreeable, and as for me, why when I rise in the morning and look into the glass I say to myself, 'Who is that rather clever-looking girl who smiles at me every morning in such friendly fashion?' And, would you believe it!--she turns out to be Jessie Vining every time!" She was in a gay mood; she rattled away at her machine, glancing over it mischievously at him from time to time. He, having nothing to do except to look at her, did so as often as he dared. And so they kept the light conversational shuttle-cock flying through the sunny afternoon until it drew near to tea-time. Jessie said very seriously: "No Englishman can exist without tea. Tea is as essential to him as it is to British fiction. A microscopic examination of any novel made by a British subject will show traces of tea-leaves and curates although, as the text-books on chemistry have it, otherwise the substance of the work may be colourless, tasteless, odourless, and gaseous to the verge of the fourth dimension----" "If you don't cease making game of things British and sacred," he threatened, "I'll try to stop you in a way that will astonish you." "What will you try to do?" she asked, much interested.