Instead of apprehension at his approaching visit she now felt only interest and a kind of suppressed exhilaration as at the prospect of a flight in a new plane or the trying out of a green hunter--excitement like that which preceded all her sportive ventures. So that when she met John Rizzio in the drawing-room after dinner--he had not been able to manage a more opportune train--she gave him a warm hand-clasp of greeting and a smile which caused him some surprise and not a little regret--surprise that she was carrying off a difficult situation with consummate ease; regret that such self-possession and artistry were not to be added to the ornaments of his house in Berkeley Square. Perhaps still---- “How agreeable,” she was saying charmingly. “The great man actually condescends to come to the land of Calvin, oatcake and sulphur, when there are truffles and old Madeira still to be had in London.” He laughed, his dark eyes appraising her slender blond beauty eagerly. “I have no quarrel with Calvin. Oatcake--by all means. Sulphur--er--I suppose the sulphur will come in time.” “Not if you’re polite,” said the girl coolly, “and tell me what brought you so unexpectedly to Scotland.” They were standing near the fire apart from the others, Doris with one slipper on the fender, which she was regarding approvingly, her head upon one side. He admired her careless tone. She was quite wonderful. “Perhaps you will not believe me,” he said suavely, “if I were to tell you that I came to see you.” “Me? I _am_ flattered. I thought that great collectors were always deterred by fear of the spurious.” She was carrying the war into his camp. He met the issue squarely. “They are _only_ deterred by the spurious. Therefore I am here. The inference is obvious.” He had always showed the slightest trace of his foreign accent. It went admirably with his shrug and mobile fingers. “I am genuine in this,” she laughed, “that however much you know about pictures, about _objets de vertu_--women must remain for you and for all other men an unknown quantity.” “Not when they are both,” he said gallantly. “There are good and bad pictures--objects of virtue, excessively ugly----” “Objects of virtue are usually excessively ugly, especially if they are women.” “Thanks,” said Doris. “You’re most flattering. There’s something in the air of Scotland that makes one tell the truth.” He laughed. “If Scotland is as merciless as that, I shall be off in the morning. I could imagine no worse purgatory than a place in which one always tells the truth. Lying is one of the highest arts of a mature civilization. I haven’t the slightest notion, nor have you, that either of us means a thing he says. We were all born to deceive--some of us do it in one way, some in another, but we all do it to the very best of our bent. For instance, you said a while ago that it was agreeable for you to see me. But I’m quite sure, you know, that it wasn’t.”