"I’m sick of having no models!" she burst out passionately. "I haven’t touched a horse for weeks! I—I’m just aching for the mere feel of them! A cat! Beyond Kate Kearney I’m offered a cat! It’s like offering a starving man a piece of sugar-stick! Denis, try to draw a cat! A heap of stupid, meaningless fur! No muscles—no veins—oh, a horse is so glorious to paint!" She broke off with a quick little laugh. "Twin Nell ’pletely sorry," she said, using an old baby formula. "Tell me what you’re let in for?" "Not till you tell me what you’ve been up to." "Oh, it was nothing. I saw a hansom waiting outside the corner house. Ripping little chestnut, Denis," her whole-face kindled irresistibly; "the driver told me she was almost a thoroughbred. When a car passed along the top of the road, she played-up beautifully. Oh, the drawing in her! Well, I saw her from a window and seized up my sketch-book and bolted up the road. Now, is there any harm in that? I asked the driver how long he thought he’d be, and he smiled and said his fare was a solicitor who’d come to a client’s house on business. ’They charge for their time, miss!’ he said meaningly, so I rejoiced and started sketching her in. And he was such a nice man, too. He’d actually been to the Dublin horse show a few years ago. We had an argument about our horses. And he made her put her head as I wanted, and he told me how he’d come across her, and then—oh, I’d left the hall door open, of course, and Aunt Kezia—oh, Denis, you’d think I’d committed something much worse than a murder!" "Show me the sketch." "I did one of her—and then several bits—quite rough. I’m going to paint her into that picture I was doing." "It’s splendid, Nell. What a cute little beast!" "Now tell me what you’ve been let in for?" "A speech! A lecture! Old Yovil has let us all in for it. You can’t say no to him somehow—he sort of works you up. Lancaster’s swearing like the wind round the Craffrone tower. He says he must have been out of his mind to say he’d do it, but he can’t go back now. It’s to be on the third. Choose any subject you like—write it up—no notes, though—and spout forth in his drawing-room to a long-suffering audience. There’re six of us going in for it, and a ripping edition of all the immortal Billy’s plays for the winner." "Which will be you," annotated Nell with conviction. "Not it! There’s one chap—Morley—poetical sort of ass, who wears his hair too long—he’ll beat me in a canter, my dear, not to mention the others." "I’ll come and hear you, won’t I, Denis?" "Wish you could! But there won’t be any ladies. Only us and Yovil, you know." After luncheon a maid came to ask if the Atom might go and have tea with Stewart. Sheila Pat, her Pearl clasped beneath one arm, and a spelling-book beneath the other, interviewed her in the hall. "I’m not comin’, thank you, Mary." The maid hesitated. "If you could, miss—" "I have reasons of my own for not comin’, Mary."