“Why, no; except that she was to dine with you. What happened? Did she discuss art in a monologue from soup to coffee? or, did—” “Yes, she did that; but it wouldn’t have really mattered, except for—you see it was this way: when she was here last summer, she gave me one of her, well, _she_ calls them paintings. I accepted it with profuse thanks; and hung it in the darkest corner of the attic as soon as her train was well out of Chicago. When I heard that she was coming back, I fished the picture out of its corner, and gave it a prominent place in the parlor, telling her it had been there all the time.” “Well, I’m sure she ought to be satisfied with that,” said the president; “not many people care enough for Lola to hang her pictures even temporarily on the parlor walls. The one she gave me is in the cook’s bedroom—the poor woman has been complaining of insomnia lately.” “No wonder. Unluckily I forgot to coach my family, and when we came in from the dinner table, my brother Frank joined us. You know Lola _is_ pretty when she remembers to comb her hair and remove her painting apron.” “Mercy on us! did he criticise her painting while she was present?” “No. He only said, ‘Hello, where did you get this new picture? I never saw it before. Looks like the one that has been vegetating in the attic!’” “You needn’t tell us the rest, dear; we all know Lola. It was too bad, when you had only done it to spare her feelings, too!” “Dear! dear!” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I wonder why the most hopeless artists are ever the most generous with their productions? They seem to wish to give them away, whereas—” “Self-preservation, dear. When one has done something dreadful, one dislikes to be constantly reminded of the fact!” said the girl with the classic profile. “You know my eldest sister, don’t you? Well, her husband has an awful temper, but he seldom gives Sophie any trouble. Whenever he begins to be unpleasant, she says: ‘Isn’t it fortunate, dear; if you should die, or we should ever separate, I could have a good income, anyhow—I could just publish in book form the poems you wrote to me before we were married!’” “And what then?” asked the president, breathlessly. “Oh, he kicks the dog or snubs his typewriter; but he never says another word to Sophie.” “And yet, Sophie used to be considered dull at school,” said the president, thoughtfully. “Well, that’s only another proof that even genius needs a special opportunity.”