Cowperwood glowed with a strange feeling of approval and enthusiasm at this manifestation of real interest. He liked jade himself very much, but more than that the feeling that prompted this expression in another. Roughly speaking, it might have been said of him that youth and hope in women—particularly youth when combined with beauty and ambition in a girl—touched him. He responded keenly to her impulse to do or be something in this world, whatever it might be, and he looked on the smart, egoistic vanity of so many with a kindly, tolerant, almost parental eye. Poor little organisms growing on the tree of life—they would burn out and fade soon enough. He did not know the ballad of the roses of yesteryear, but if he had it would have appealed to him. He did not care to rifle them, willy-nilly; but should their temperaments or tastes incline them in his direction, they would not suffer vastly in their lives because of him. The fact was, the man was essentially generous where women were concerned. “How nice of you!” he commented, smiling. “I like that.” And then, seeing a note-book and pencil beside her, he asked, “What are you doing?” “Just sketching.” “Let me see?” “It’s nothing much,” she replied, deprecatingly. “I don’t draw very well.” “Gifted girl!” he replied, picking it up. “Paints, draws, carves on wood, plays, sings, acts.” “All rather badly,” she sighed, turning her head languidly and looking away. In her sketch-book she had put all of her best drawings; there were sketches of nude women, dancers, torsos, bits of running figures, sad, heavy, sensuous heads and necks of sleeping girls, chins up, eyelids down, studies of her brothers and sister, and of her father and mother. “Delightful!” exclaimed Cowperwood, keenly alive to a new treasure. Good heavens, where had been his eyes all this while? Here was a jewel lying at his doorstep—innocent, untarnished—a real jewel. These drawings suggested a fire of perception, smoldering and somber, which thrilled him. “These are beautiful to me, Stephanie,” he said, simply, a strange, uncertain feeling of real affection creeping over him. The man’s greatest love was for art. It was hypnotic to him. “Did you ever study art?” he asked. “No.” “And you never studied acting?” “No.” She shook her head in a slow, sad, enticing way. The black hair concealing her ears moved him strangely. “I know the art of your stage work is real, and you have a natural art which I just seem to see. What has been the matter with me, anyhow?” “Oh no,” she sighed. “It seems to me that I merely play at everything. I could cry sometimes when I think how I go on.” “At twenty?” “That is old enough,” she smiled, archly. “Stephanie,” he asked, cautiously, “how old are you, exactly?” “I will be twenty-one in April,” she answered. “Have your parents been very strict with you?”