"I don't go anywhere, but they mount on my back at home like the Old Man of the Sea. Just observe a little when you return to London," Mr. Nash went on with friendly instructiveness. Julia got up at this--she didn't like receiving directions; but no other corner of the room appeared to offer her any particular reason for crossing to it: she never did such a thing without a great inducement. So she remained standing there as if she were quitting the place in a moment, which indeed she now determined to do; and her interlocutor, rising also, lingered beside her unencouraged but unperturbed. He proceeded to remark that Mr. Sherringham was quite right to offer Miss Rooth an afternoon's sport; she deserved it as a fine, brave, amiable girl. She was highly educated, knew a dozen languages, was of illustrious lineage, and was immensely particular. "Immensely particular?" Mrs. Dallow repeated. "Perhaps I should say rather that her mother's so on her behalf. Particular about the sort of people they meet--the tone, the standard. I'm bound to say they're like _you_: they don't go everywhere. That spirit's not so common in the mob calling itself good society as not to deserve mention." She said nothing for a moment; she looked vaguely round the room, but not at Miriam Rooth. Nevertheless she presently dropped as in forced reference to her an impatient shake. "She's dreadfully vulgar." "Ah don't say that to my friend Dormer!" Mr. Nash laughed. "Are you and he such great friends?" Mrs. Dallow asked, meeting his eyes. "Great enough to make me hope we shall be greater." Again for a little she said nothing, but then went on: "Why shouldn't I say to him that she's vulgar?" "Because he admires her so much. He wants to paint her." "To paint her?" "To paint her portrait." "Oh I see. I daresay she'd do for that." Mr. Nash showed further amusement. "If that's your opinion of her you're not very complimentary to the art he aspires to practise." "He aspires to practise?" she echoed afresh. "Haven't you talked with him about it? Ah you must keep him up to it!" Julia Dallow was conscious for a moment of looking uncomfortable; but it relieved her to be able to demand of her neighbour with a certain manner: "Are you an artist?" "I try to be," Nash smiled, "but I work in such difficult material." He spoke this with such a clever suggestion of mysterious things that she was to hear herself once more pay him the attention of taking him up. "Difficult material?" "I work in life!"